The word “terrorist” hung in the air like the gunpowder from Ed’s .38.
The bat had disappeared.
Once they’d given their statements to everybody, Ed and Sam sat back and enjoyed the circus. They knew damn well they were in for one hell of an ass-chewing from Commander Mendoza in the morning, but for now, it was fun to just watch the show as the various departments and agencies fought for jurisdiction. Apparently, the man had come from one of the more interesting countries in Eastern Europe, as far as the government was concerned. And no, they would only share information with the local Chicago cops if the situation demanded it, and only if they deemed the public health to be at risk.
But when three astronauts in blue plastic suits with the initials CDC stenciled in no-nonsense letters a foot high on their backs appeared at the top of the escalators, the arguing trickled into silence. The men from the CDC conferred briefly with the FBI agents, then moved on to investigate the body.
A squad of soldiers followed and formed a seven-man perimeter around the body. The rest took posts at various points throughout the room. They wore air filter masks, plastic covers over their fatigues, rubber boots sealed with duct tape, and surgical rubber gloves. Two more carried supplies for the guys in charge.
The FBI agents started moving everyone back. It wasn’t hard. All of the fight had gone out of the various agencies. It was clear that the CDC was now in charge, and nobody was protesting. Nobody wanted to go to war with the CDC.
Germs didn’t fight fair.
Once someone was dead, you could stop worrying. Get him somewhere cold where the medical guys could cut him open and figure out what killed him and you were good to go. But when that particular agency got involved . . . all bets were off. If you could catch some kind of god-awful flesh-rotting disease from a corpse, then nobody wanted to fuck around. Everybody started to look for excuses to get the hell out of there.
One of the FBI agents addressed the crowd. “Need your attention for a quick moment, folks, make sure everybody is up to speed. As of now, the body of the suspect will be handed off to the custody of the CDC.”
The guys from the CDC ignored all this and used long tongs to place the remaining bats in small jars with lids connected to a complicated air filtration machine. One stood back and instructed the others. His voice was inaudible as he leaned over the body. He stepped back and unfolded one of the thickest body bags Sam had ever seen.
“So we’d like to turn the scene over to them,” the FBI agent continued. “If we can have everyone file out in an orderly fashion, we’ll finish up the debriefing and a few other things in no time.”
Ed said out of the side of his mouth, “What ‘other things’?”
“My money’s on some kind of decontamination song and dance.”
They wandered over to the edge of the escalators and saw the CDC guys spraying everything down with foam that expanded over every surface with sea-green bubbles. Behind that was more air-filtration equipment. Buckets to step in. Collapsible rooms to march through.
“Fuck that. I paid sixty bucks for these shoes,” Ed said. “They ain’t hosing ’em down. And Carolina’s flight still hasn’t landed.”
“So much for your flowers.”
They walked away from the escalators. Sam acted like he was retrieving his briefcase, picking up a thin one abandoned in the shooting. He made a show of checking his watch as everyone crowded around the escalators. While he appeared to be merging into an organized line, he joined his partner in the far corner and they slipped through one of the employee-only doors.
CHAPTER 4
7:57 PM
December 27
Tommy Krazinsky kissed his daughter Grace good night, tucked the blanket tighter around her shoulders, and arranged Grace’s stuffed animals so they formed a protective wall around her. He made sure to slip her favorite, some kind of puppy with butterfly wings, under the blanket, so that Grace could cradle it in the crook of her small arm.
“I’d hate to forget Princess . . . who’s this again?”
“Princess Tianna Fuzzycakes, Daddy.” She watched him with a four-year-old’s solemn eyes.
“Of course. She’ll keep you safe, okay?”
Until tonight, Tommy had been able to stay with his daughter until she fell asleep on Sunday nights, but tonight was his first night at his new job. His best guess was that it would take just under an hour to get downtown. He didn’t own a car and would have to rely on Chicago’s rather unreliable public transportation. At least he didn’t have to catch a bus. Tommy could walk to the Red Line and catch an El straight downtown.
He was about to start work for the Department of Streets and Sanitation. Although he would normally start his shift at the division headquarters on the West Side, tonight he’d been summoned downtown.
He kissed Grace’s forehead again. “Sorry, baby. Daddy loves you, little one.” He kissed her forehead once more and stood. Shrugging into his coat, he said, “I’ll see you soon, okay? Don’t worry about anything. Daddy’s gonna fix it. I’ll straighten things out with Mommy. I promise.” He patted her bed and left before his voice cracked.
Mommy was Kimmy. Kimmy was Tommy’s ex-wife. They had been high school sweethearts. Their relationship had gone slowly but steadily south when Kimmy had finally discovered why men were so gosh darn nice to her.
Tommy had loved her before she had blossomed into a knockout: long black hair, the grin and eyes of an angel, and the body of a lustful demon. Her father had been a complete and utter drunken wreck, and she had fallen hard for the only boy who showed her kindness. Throughout high school, Tommy was the only man who had mattered in her life. In her mind, their lives were predestined. The two were going to spend their lives living in Bridgeport, barbecuing on weekends, cheering for the Sox, raising kids, attending St. Mary of Perpetual Help on West Thirty-second Street every Sunday and holiday, and pretty much living within the nexus of the Stevenson and Dan Ryan expressways for the rest of their lives.
That didn’t work out.
But by then, she’d already had Grace, and Tommy was sleeping on the couch. Four years later, she was living with Grace in a three-room flat in Wrigleyville. Her mom, Florence, owned the building, and lived downstairs.
While Tommy was able to spend weekends with Grace, he and Kimmy didn’t talk much if they could help it. Grace wasn’t in school yet, but Tommy could see a whole new set of issues clouding up on the horizon when that happened next year.
He gently closed Grace’s bedroom door. He stood for a moment in the middle of the long hall. The living room and front door in the shotgun apartment were off to the left. Kimmy was in the kitchen off to the right. Tommy knew better. He knew he should turn left and leave quietly.
But his daughter’s fear made him angry. He turned to the right.
“What do you want?” The words hit him before he’d stepped into the kitchen.
Tommy shook his head, held his palms up, like he was surrendering. “I don’t have time to argue. She’s four years old, for Chrissakes. Why in the hell would you tell her there’s goddamn monsters in the closet and under the bed?”
“You don’t have to take care of her five days a week. You don’t know what it’s like. She’s an angel, I’m sure, when she’s with you. She’s not like that here. No. Here, she won’t stay in her goddamn bed. You go be Father of the Year somewhere else. I’m her mom. I’ll take care of it. I’m sorry, but you don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.” She flipped the page of her magazine.
“I shoulda known better than—”
“You’re going to be late. Do you know what that means?”
Tommy nodded, slowly. He couldn’t resist getting the last word in and said, “Shoulda known better,” and left.