Scott and Vince looked down the empty hall. It didn’t look inviting.
“It’s down there. Trust me,” the man in the Hawaiian shirt said. He hit a button and the doors closed.
Vince shrugged. Scott started down the long hallway, wondering if he had time to get out of the damn suit. As he passed each room, he noticed every single door was open. From what he could see, the rooms were empty, but he couldn’t help but feel as if there were people on this floor, people hiding out, people waiting for the right moment to appear.
A low, keening moan. Down on the right.
Some kind of banging, way down at the far end of the left side.
Nothing else. Just those horribly empty hospital rooms.
Scott said, “Fuck this.”
Vince turned to the elevator, wanting to hit DOWN. He found the control panel open, hanging broken and limp. Inside, every wire had been cut. He slapped the panel aside in frustration.
It banged into the wall and the sound echoed along the corridor.
Scott found a chair on its side, used it to fling at the video camera, a clear fuck-you to whoever left them on this floor.
The chair hit the ceiling, missing the camera, and crashed back to the floor.
A few howls and screams echoed in answer.
Scott turned back to Vince, started to ask, “Where’s the goddamn stairs?” when the first one came out of one of the rooms.
By the time they saw the running woman, it was too late. She had cracked under the strain to maintain the quiet, and came at the noise, bludgeoning Vince, the closest, with a wooden chair leg.
The rest came screaming out of the rooms. They swarmed the paramedics, striking, slashing, biting, sometimes each other, in a frantic effort to silence their world.
CHAPTER 37
10:23 AM
August 13
Ed drove. South on Canal. Left onto West Monroe, heading east, to the lake. The morning sun hung in the sky in the upper right corner of the windshield. After showers, breakfast, two pots of coffee, and surviving his girlfriend’s wrath, Ed explained that they were not to go within ten blocks of the hospital. Seemed that the word from above had come down on Arturo, with the weight of none other than the federal government, and this time, there was no way he would stick up for the two detectives.
“I guess we better find Qween,” Sam said.
“How?” Ed asked.
“We go looking for folks that look like they live under a rock. See if they know her.”
“That’s a hell of a plan.”
“It’s been a hell of a couple of days,” Sam said, readjusting his bulletproof vest, tightening the Velcro straps.
“Which way?” Ed looked north and south along State, then west along Madison.
“Let’s hit the river. Should be plenty of folks along there that know her.”
They parked on the sidewalk along Upper Wacker. Nobody would mess with the Crown Vic.
At the stairs down to the River Walk, Sam sank onto the top step to catch his breath. He pulled out his flask and Ed sat down heavily next to him. They passed the flask back and forth for a while, not saying anything. When it was empty, they got up and descended the rest of the stairs. They headed east along the river, moving almost as slowly as the water as it sluggishly flowed away from the lake.
Most of the usual haunts, the man-made caves and hollows, were vacant. They could see the remnants of the inhabitants, such as empty bottles, food wrappers, old blankets, stacks of old newspapers. But everything was empty until they passed under the Wabash Bridge.
Sam saw the man’s shoes first. He whistled at Ed, who was down near the water, peering over the edge. The shoes, a warped and cracked pair of black wingtips, ended in surprisingly clean white socks. Black wool suit pants disappeared in the darkness of the narrow culvert. Sam tapped the shoes. “Excuse me, sir.”
“Fuck you.” A rasping voice from inside the shadows. “Ain’t hurting nobody. Leave me alone.”
“Sorry to disturb you, sir, but I need to ask you a question.”
“Got nothin’ to say.”
Ed was short on patience. “Listen, pal, I know there’s all kinds of bad shit going on around here, but we need some help and we don’t have much time. You want to stick your head out of your hole and help us, or am I gonna have to drag you out on your ass and throw you in the goddamn river?”
The wingtips didn’t move, but the voice said, “Whatchu want?”
“We’re looking for Qween,” Sam said. “And before you jump to conclusions, she’s helping us. She’s not in trouble. Tell you what, I got ten bucks here if you help us out.”
“What I gotta do?”
“Nothing. Just tell her, if you see her, that we need to talk. That’s all.”
The wingtips were still for a moment, then withdrew into the shadow as the man shifted position in the narrow space. Pretty soon, he stuck his head out. He was old, and it was impossible to tell his race. His oddly expressive features, like a clown in a silent movie, looked exotic one moment, and the next, like the perfectly ordinary lined and pitted face of a homeless man. The grime on his face didn’t help.
It was clear he had been homeless for a long, long time. He didn’t strike the detectives as the kind of bum who would sit with his back against a building, shaking a cardboard coffee cup for spare change. He would never beg out in public. Too proud. An unlit, half-smoked cigarette was clamped between the first two knuckles of his fore and middle fingers.
“The fuck you want with Qween?”
Sam said, “We need to talk to her. That’s all.”
“Qween ain’t gonna want to talk to no cops.”
“You tell her that Detectives Jones and Johnson are looking for her. We’ll try and stick near the river, by Adams Street, Union Station.” Sam pulled out a bill. Snapped it in front of the guy to get his attention. “You tell her if you see her, got it?”
“I ain’t stupid, white boy.”
“Never said you were. Making sure you’re honest.”
The old guy cracked up at that. “Shit. Nobody alive is honest.”
Ed asked, “You heard about the rats?”
“Ever’body heard ’bout the rats.”
Ed leaned closer. “What’s wrong with ’em?”
“Damned if I know. Why’nchu watch the news? They got all the answers.”
Ed caught sight of somebody on the Dearborn Bridge aiming a long lens in their direction. “Time to go. Some asshole’s taking pictures.”
“You just remember,” Sam told the old man, “you see Qween, then you tell her we need to talk. We’ll hang near Union Station as much as we can.”
“Fine, fine. I’m finna go up thataway m’self sometime.” He held his hand out.
Sam slapped a folded twenty into the old man’s palm.
Dr. Reischtal stepped into Tommy’s room and stood over the patient for a while, silent. He kneeled at the side of the bed. Put his elbows on the mattress. The gloved hands came together and interlaced over Tommy’s waist.
“Oh, Lord. Hear me. Hear me, oh Lord.” Dr. Reischtal didn’t say anything else for a while.
Eventually, Tommy wondered if Dr. Reischtal was waiting for an answer.
“Oh, Lord. You are the one, true god. Let me smite him, oh Lord. Let me smite him.”
It got so quiet Tommy could hear the fluorescent lights’ faint buzz behind the plastic. He decided that if Dr. Reischtal so much as picked up a syringe, Tommy was going to yell as loudly as possible. Beyond that, he couldn’t move.
The silence stretched out several minutes, until finally, Dr. Reischtal took a deep breath. His voice was low and ragged. “I understand now. If that is your will, then so be it. He will lead us to the vector. Thy will be done. Until further reconsideration is necessary. Amen.” He stood, and watched Tommy.