He saw that he was in some kind of hospital room, but he couldn’t move from his position, lying flat on his back on some sort of unyielding bed. He felt straps binding him tightly across his chest, his waist, and his knees. His wrists were also secured. He whipped his head to the side. Some kind of thick plastic covered the walls and maybe the floor, but he couldn’t see from his bed.
“I told you to calm down,” the voice said again.
Tommy whipped his head to the other side.
A gaunt face, covered in a blue surgical mask and small round glasses, loomed over him. “My name is Dr. Reischtal.”
A visibly nervous nurse stood next to him, looking as though she wanted to bolt for the door. She wore a surgical mask as well and rubber gloves over her uniform. Tommy couldn’t tell if she was more afraid of him or the doctor.
Dr. Reischtal unhooked one half of his surgical mask and let it hang from one ear. He said, “We have removed your feeding tube and oxygen. You are perfectly fine and able to speak. So just relax.”
Dr. Reischtal’s tone was anything but relaxing. Still, Tommy tried. He forced himself to slow his breathing, to stop fighting the straps. It took a while.
Dr. Reischtal was impatient. “Do you need a sedative?”
“No. No thanks. Untie me, and I might feel better.”
Dr. Reischtal actually smiled, as if he’d just found small joy in watching an enemy stumble and fall and impale himself on a wrought iron fence. “I have a few small, but important, questions for you, Mr. Krazinsky.”
“Okay. Sure.”
“To begin with, Mr. Krazinsky, you need to understand that you are the possible vector for an infectious disease the likes of which humankind has never seen.”
“Don’t you ‘hey, baby’ me,” Carolina’s voice was loud enough for Sam to hear, loud and clear. “All night, and not a word? I thought we were past all this bullshit.”
Sam gave Ed a nod and stiffly climbed out into the early morning light, giving his partner some space. The sun was hitting the tops of the buildings, lightening the shadows, bringing out the details of the gray and vacant streets. He wondered if his sport coat and shirt smelled and couldn’t remember when he’d last changed his clothes.
Inside the 7-Eleven, Sam nodded at the clerk as he went into the restroom. He locked the door behind him and pulled off his vest. Using the underside of his fist to hit the hot water handle, he held a few towels under the ten-second dribble. He wiped off his face and the back of his neck and tried not look at himself in the mirror.
He thought about the soldiers from last night to distract himself.
Goddamn. Once he’d seen the guns, he’d known damn well they weren’t National Guard. Shit, they weren’t even regular Army. Or Marines, for that matter. They wore National Guard uniforms, but several key items were missing. All rank insignia had been stripped. And no name tags. Instead, they had a series of numbers on their backs, up high, on top of their shoulders, so someone could keep track of them from a helicopter. Or a satellite.
It looked like the uniforms were supposed to simply maintain the illusion of U.S. soldiers, at least from a distance.
The National Guard didn’t carry weapons like this. Sam read all the gun magazines that were left around the police station. Some of the assault rifles the soldiers carried he’d recognized. Others had been modified beyond measure and he could only guess at the caliber, let alone the makes and models of the guns themselves.
These guys were well-financed, well-organized, and professional to the bone. Whoever was now in charge of the hospital had some serious muscle behind them.
And when the closest soldier had said, “Sir, my superiors would like to apologize for their behavior last night,” the hairs on the back of Sam’s neck prickled. Something was seriously wrong. “If you would follow me, I can escort you to my boss, who would like to apologize in person.” The soldier stepped aside, clearing a path to the restricted elevator.
Before he realized what he was doing, Sam had a hand on Ed’s arm, stopping his partner. He said, “Uh, you know what, guys? It’s getting awfully late.” He made up some bullshit about checking in with the watch commander and how this wasn’t their only case. The whole time, Sam had the gut-churning feeling that if they got into the elevator, it was inevitable that these soldiers would take them to a basement somewhere under the emergency room and shoot them in the head. Whoever was in charge of the hospital could explain the deaths any way they wanted.
Ed had immediately sensed his partner’s hesitation and didn’t try to argue. They strolled out the front door and climbed into their Crown Vic, feeling the soldiers’ eyes on their backs the entire time. They ended up just a few blocks north, at Monk’s, and at midnight, when the bar closed, they found a 7-Eleven and spent the night drinking vodka and orange juice, trying to figure out their next move.
Sam took a leak and washed his hands and face again. He pulled out his phone and dialed the nursing home in Skokie. Despite the time, almost five o’clock, and her age, almost ninety-two, he knew she wouldn’t be sleeping. She’d be sitting up in bed, watching the Weather Channel. Her cell phone would be on the nightstand alongside the remote control for her adjustable hospital bed. Sometimes, she wouldn’t have the strength or coordination to open the phone, so she would gently tap the edge of the phone on the corner of her night table, like she was cracking an egg where she wanted the fluid shell of the yolk preserved.
“Hello?”
“How are you feeling, Mom?”
“Oh, you know, I’ve been better. Still, I can’t complain. And you? How’s life with the Chicago Police Department?” She would then go on complaining for a full five minutes, sometimes making jokes about how much it hurt getting off her ass and getting to the bathroom. At least she had stopped asking when he would get married again.
At some point, Sam would invariably say, “I’m doing well, Mom.”
This morning, his call was interrupted by a call from Ed.
Ed said, “Turn on your radio.”
Chicago detectives, like all Chicago police officers, were required to carry department-issued radios at all times. Most detectives clipped them into their bulletproof vests, another pain-in-the-ass direct order, but left the radios off. They knew the boss would use the phone. Almost all the time.
“Listen, sorry, Mom, I just got a call from headquarters. I have to hang up now. I will call you later, okay?”
“Well, if you have to leave your mom worried sick and everything just because of work, I understand,” she said, both of them knowing damn well she didn’t.
“I’m glad, Mom. Bye,” Sam said, switching on his radio.
“—and therefore, district commanders will be in contact with their individual teams. All department personnel are required to report for duty, regardless of rank. This message will repeat every five minutes.” A click. “All department personnel are on high alert for persons exhibiting unusual behavior.”
What the fuck constitutes unusual behavior? Sam wondered.
“Specifically, be on the lookout for signs of an addict undergoing severe withdrawal symptoms. Pale skin. Uncontrollable shivering. Sweating. Bloodshot eyes.”
Sam unwrapped a stick of nicotine gum. Were they fucking serious? By now, he was at the car.
“You hearing this Dragnet shit?” Ed asked, holding up his radio.
The radio continued. “First responders are required to wear appropriate protection when in contact with anyone displaying these symptoms. Members of law enforcement are directed to transport any individuals exhibiting these symptoms to Cook County General Hospital, where a team of emergency personnel has been established to counter the situation.”
Sam and Ed looked at each other.