On TV over the bar, the anchor was wrapping up their lead story, “More details about this tragic death as they become available. In other news, Streets and Sanitation Commissioner Lee Shea today answered some tough questions about the rat population. Cecilia Palmers was on the scene at City Hall earlier today.” The camera cut away to a shot of the east side of City Hall. Lee always conducted press conferences on the county side in the morning, because the light was better.
One of the Streets and Sans guys pointed at the TV. “Our fearless leader.”
Don and Tommy turned to watch the news.
Lee was out in front of City Hall again, wearing his earnest, concerned expression. “I can assure you that everyone in my department is doing their absolute best with their limited resources. It is unfortunate that the rest of City Hall does not share my concern for the well-being of the citizens of Chicago. Nevertheless, you have my unwavering promise that Streets and Sans is doing everything within its power to control the population of vermin. I can only ask that if anyone is concerned about pests in their neighborhoods, to not only call us, but to call their aldermen as well, and ask them why it was decided that Streets and Sans would not receive sufficient funds to do this job properly.”
CHAPTER 16
8:07 AM
April 18
“Oh, and by the way, the files are in the basement.” Martin kept going over that last sentence that Chad had tossed off so casually. That prick.
When Martin had volunteered, all he’d wanted was a chance to pitch in, make the partners notice his enthusiasm. Here was a man who got things done. Martin, despite his law degree, had worked in the same office job for the last eight years, and it was time to make his move. The firm was gearing up for a huge class-action lawsuit, so sure he’d absolutely volunteer for a thankless job of going through the hard copies of old files that nobody had gotten around to scanning yet for the name of an obscure subsidiary holdings company or something that no one could quite definitively tell him. Sure. He’d do that. He thought he’d at least be able to use an office, instead of the table in the cafeteria. And he certainly hadn’t expected the files to be in the basement.
Thirty-two years old. Worked in the same job for over eight years. Two promotions. Family and a house in the far suburbs. A wife, two kids. Michael was in preschool and Jonathan was a babe in his mother’s arms. He’d be happy to show you pictures of both of ’em.
And so, every morning, for the last four days, he had gone down to the vast basement. Martin had no interest in lingering as he skirted through the blank, slate-gray walls and the endless locked doors. Usually, he had to use a key to access his firm’s storage room, but this morning the door was still unlocked. Good. It was unlikely anyone had bothered to come down to check on the room.
He opened the door to darkness and waved his hand around for the light chain.
Yesterday, he’d run out of the room, leaving it unlocked. He’d been hearing squeaking all week, and while it made him uncomfortable, it was tolerable, but yesterday morning he had heard an awful squalling from something, then a whole bunch of hissing from things all over. He’d grabbed his files, slammed the door, not bothering locking it, and had run down to the elevator. Upstairs, in the cafeteria, he’d wiped the sweat from his face, put the files on the table and his lunch in the employee fridge. He thought about telling someone, but didn’t want anyone to think he was being weak.
He stepped into the darkness, not wanting to linger.
A click. The jittering bulb cast a pallid orange light over the banks of filing cabinets, stacked wall to wall and two high, leaving a single walkway down the middle, about a foot and half across. He saw the dead rat immediately.
Martin yanked on the chain, plunging the room into darkness. He couldn’t explain why; it was more of a nervous reaction. Maybe the rat would disappear when he turned the light on again, even though he knew perfectly well the rat was stone dead, lying against the cabinets on the left side of the room. Another click.
The rat hadn’t gone anywhere. Martin’s first impulse was to just shut the door and tell someone, but that would eat up too much of his time. He had to get home. God knew he had to get home. His poor wife was at the end of her rope with the two boys.
So instead, he used the toe of his right shoe to prod and flip the rat out into the hall. He’d have to use some kind of spray and disinfect his shoe later, and just hoped it wouldn’t hurt the cheap leather. He squatted, opened a drawer, and pulled out a fistful of files. He did not see the tiny bugs scattered across the floor, all of them about the size of apple seeds, hiding amongst the dust and scraps of paper.
As he straightened, flipping through the files, five of the closest bugs crawled up the heel of his left shoe, paused at the top, stretched out, and caught hold of his black sock. They pulled themselves across the gap and nestled inside the ribs of the fabric. Some ancient instinct compelled them to hide, tucked away, unmoving, until hours later, as they felt the rhythm of his motions grow slow, when Martin fell asleep on the train. The ride out to Crystal Lake lasted an hour and twenty minutes, and Martin rarely stayed awake for the entire trip.
Hidden by his khakis, the bugs emerged and moved swiftly up his sock, pulled by the irresistible lure of warm, bare flesh. Each unfolded a narrow tube from its segmented body and sank it into his skin. The tube was actually split into two chambers; the larger one was hollow and was used for sucking out the beautiful red blood. The second, smaller tube was used for bathing the skin in an anti-coagulant and a numbing secretion, so the host wouldn’t feel anything as microscopic teeth chewed through the layers of skin until hitting a blood vessel.
Ten minutes later, the bugs were full and swollen to almost twice their original size. They trundled back down to their hiding places in Martin’s sock, where they tucked themselves away and quietly digested their meal.
The conductor woke Martin up at the end of the line and Martin walked tiredly out through the sea of cars in the parking lot, wondering why his leg had started itching.
“I’m hearing some confusing rumors, Lee.”
Lee tried not to jump. His uncle Phil had an inherent distrust of phones, and had a habit of appearing out of nowhere in the massive corridors in City Hall, conferring quietly, then slipping away when his business was finished, disappearing into the cool marble. More than once, Lee had wondered if Phil knew about some kind of secret passages or something in the building.
Lee decided to play dumb and kept walking. He was heading downstairs; his personal trainer was waiting for a quick jog along the lakefront. If nothing else, Lee knew the steady movement would tire Phil out and the conversation would be short. “Oh yeah? How can I help?”
“You know damn well what I’m talking about. And don’t think that people aren’t noticing. You are treading on some very thin ice here. It’s just a matter of time before some scumbag reporter gets one of your employees drunk and they spill their guts.” Phil sighed. “Do you really think nobody is smart enough to put two and two together? How stupid do you think people are in this city? Or do you have some fantasy that you are untouchable? I’m praying that you didn’t just torpedo your career before it even got started. This goes bad, you’ll be lucky to end up picking up garbage in Peoria.”
Lee rubbed his eyes. “Give it a fucking rest, will ya? They’ll figure out a way to increase my budget. You’ll see. You and your pals pull this crap all the time. The one time I try playing hardball, everybody shits their pants. I mean, seriously, what’s the fucking difference?”