We All Fall Down (21 page)

CHAPTER 56

Molly’s address turned out to be a small warehouse in an industrial park on the northwest edge of the city. The park itself had been shut down for a couple of years. Yet another TIF project, waiting to go into someone’s patronage pocket.

Rodriguez had wanted to come with, but we both knew it was better if he didn’t. So I drove to the address alone and sat in an empty parking lot. Storm clouds grumbled overhead, and it smelled like rain. The package Ellen had given me lay on the seat beside me. I pulled it open and reread the note she’d written. Ten minutes later, I locked up the car and walked toward the warehouse.

The west side was a long face of tired brick. There was a loading dock at the south end, with a double set of rolling doors secured by a heavy chain and padlock. Beside the dock was a single green door. I crept up and turned the knob. Locked. I thought about trying to pick it. Then I just kicked it in.

The room was large, with high ceilings and wooden stairs that led to an open loft. Dull light filtered in from windows cut just under the pitch of the roof. The rest of the room was painted in varying degrees of shadow ending in black. I ran my hand across a wall of rough stone. The floor was broken cement and dirt. The smell of stale grease and cut metal hung in the air. To my left was a large dark lump. I reached out and felt the curved groove of a lathe. An old machine shop.

My eyes drifted up and into the loft. A lamp lit a desk. There was a laptop on it, and a spread of papers. To the left of the desk was a fire exit. The door was ajar, rocking lightly on its hinges.

I took the steps two at a time. My eyes swept over the desk on my way to the door. I pushed it open and stared down a run of black iron stairs that led to a dirt parking lot. The lot was empty. I hadn’t heard a car start. And I should have. Instead, there was gun in my ribs and a voice at my shoulder.

“Why aren’t you more surprised, Kelly?”

He stripped off my coat and checked to see if I was wearing a vest. Then he lashed my wrists together and threw me in a chair. I could see out a window to my left. An old tree, polished branches naked against the darkening sky. A hard patter of sudden rain. I looked back at the man I knew as Peter Gilmore. He was long and angular, with hard, crusted features and a salt-and-pepper buzz cut. My gun was in one hand. His own, in the other.

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“What was that?” I said.

“Why weren’t you more surprised when I stuck that gun in you?”

“Next time I’ll make sure to faint.”

“You come here alone?”

“Go on outside and check.”

He seemed to think about that, then shifted my gun to his belt.

“I got a question,” I said.

“I bet.”

“Why?”

“That all you want to know?”

I nodded. Gilmore shrugged. It was my dime. And it wouldn’t play for very long.

“Money,” he said. “If you knew that, maybe you wouldn’t be in the chair.”

“The body bags?”

“A little cash on the side.”

“What about the Fours’ drug stash?”

“Now that’s gonna be a lot of cash on the side.”

“It was a mistake, Gilmore.”

“You’re gonna lecture me about mistakes?”

“Whoever paid you to release the pathogen isn’t gonna like all the extras. Gonna get around someday to thinking you’re a liability.”

“Insurance, Kelly. Gotta have it. And I do. But thanks for the concern.” He waited a beat, to see if I’d make things any more fun. Then he tightened the skin around his eyes and pulled back on the trigger.

The first round hit me in the shoulder. My head snapped to the left and back. I could see the desk behind Gilmore, tilting crazily in liquid swirls of light. I leaned to the right and managed to keep the chair upright. His eyes were back, flat and empty, sitting at the other end of the gun barrel. I zoomed in on the cut iron of the hammer pulling back a second time, then snapping forward. A boom in my ears. Compression in my chest. And a Chicago summer floated in. Grass cut fresh. I was kneeling in the on-deck circle, looking back to talk to my coach. Jimmy McDonald hit a single. I turned at the sound and caught his bat flush in the temple. I fell to the ground and looked up. There was nothing there. Nothing but blue sky, and my brother’s voice.

Except this wasn’t a bat. It was a bullet. And Philip wasn’t here. Just me. Falling backward. The desk toppling until it was standing on its head. Then a row of rafters, slabs of scarred wood, laid across the ceiling. After that it was over and down, heels first through a hole in the floor. The tunnel, black and smooth. The fall itself, fast. A long way up, I could still see the gun. Eyes like boreholes above it. Hammer falling. Always falling. There were voices in my ear. Images reflected in the stygian gloom. I tried to stop my fall, but couldn’t. Silence pressed against my skin. The physical weight of falling. And the wind. Without a shred of pity. Then the fall stopped. I lay in the darkness. Darkness became light. And then they were one. And that one was nothing.

CHAPTER 57

My eyes moved under their lids, then opened. I saw tiny honeycombs of white. Soft cells stretching around my face, enveloping. A voice scratched at my consciousness. I wiggled my hands, pinned to my sides. I was lying on what felt like a wooden floor, wrapped head to toe in plastic bubble wrap. The voice scratched again. It was Ellen, talking through a micro-receiver tucked into my ear.

“Can you hear me?”

“I hear you,” I whispered and hoped Gilmore wasn’t standing over me giggling.

“Good. Just give me a minute.”

The package Ellen had given me contained a “smart shirt”—one of CDA’s prototypes made with a weave of carbon nanofiber. Testing showed it could take a .40-caliber round at fifteen feet. I moved my shoulder. Deflect, yes. Entirely bulletproof, no. All in all, however, no complaints.

“Michael, the shirt detected some loss of blood and released a little Adrenalin into your system. Your vitals look fine, but I’m going to give you another spike. Should wake you up. Can you tell me what happened?”

“I was shot twice. Might have gotten clipped in the shoulder. Or at least bruised.”

“Can you move?”

I wiggled my fingers again. “Give me a minute.”

Ellen fell silent. I felt for the small knife I’d stashed in a pocket along my thigh. Gilmore hadn’t bothered to check me for weapons. Why would he check a man he’d shot point-blank in the chest? It was a couple of minutes’ work to get the knife into the palm of my hand. Another minute to cut myself loose. I was in a small room, just off the main space on the second floor. Someone was typing in the next room. Gilmore. Probably figured he’d finish up some paperwork, wait until it got dark, and dump me somewhere. Fuck him. I crept to the door and took a look. He was fifteen feet away, back to me, working at his desk.

I edged out of the room and across the floor. I had the knife. There was a gun at Gilmore’s elbow. It was still raining, harder now, and the sound of it against the windows covered my approach. I got to within two feet before I saw his shoulders tense. He grabbed for the gun and turned. But it was too late. I cracked him across the side of the head with the brass butt of the knife. He fell sideways off the chair and hit the floor hard. I was on him quickly. He tried to turn his body, but I was behind and had the leverage. I slipped my good arm around his neck, fitting his Adam’s apple into the crook of my elbow. Then I squeezed.

He snapped his head back, hoping to break my nose. I kept the pressure on. He struggled to his feet. I stayed with him. We circled backward and to the right, locked together in a staggering sort of dance. His arm swept a stack of papers off his desk. His hand pawed at my face. I bit his finger. He went to a knee. I hung on. It had been fifteen seconds. His brain was begging for blood. Oxygen. He tried once more, rearing up, slamming me into a wall. Then he crumpled to the floor and was done.

I flex-cuffed one arm and leg to a chair. He sat forward, head lolled against his chest.

“Ellen?”

“I’m here.”

She had listened to the struggle and never said a word.

“I’ve got him tied up.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Who else knows I’m here?”

“No one. Just like I promised.”

“You sure?”

“Yes, Michael.”

“I’m gonna shut down this comm for a bit.”

“What are you gonna do?”

I looked down at Gilmore. He was starting to come around.

“He’s got a lot of paperwork here. Hang tight until I check back in.”

I took out the earpiece and shut down the transmitter. Then I pulled out my knife. Gilmore’s head was just starting to lift off his chest. I spread his free hand out flat and took a final look out the window. The rain was sluicing off the roof and running past the windows in tiny waterfalls. I drove my knife through the meat of his hand until the blade buried itself in the wooden desk.

The scream made me feel almost sorry for the one who had killed so many. But not quite. He thrashed around for a second, not realizing his predicament and only causing himself more pain. I kept my hand on the hilt and leaned close.

“Awake yet?”

I cracked a couple of teeth with a straight right. He spit out a knot of blood. His arm was spasming despite himself.

“Fuck you.”

I twisted the blade. He grunted. Then smiled.

“Need to do better, Kelly.”

“Don’t worry, I will.”

I pulled the knife out. He couldn’t help but look down at his ruined hand.

“Up here.”

He glanced up. I slashed his left check to the bone. His left eye trembled in its socket.

I slashed the other cheek, taking a flap of skin from the jawline as well. Gilmore was shivering. Still smiling, but now a little shocky.

“Kill me.”

“In due time.”

“I did them all.”

“I know.” I moved forward with the knife. And pretty soon I knew the rest.

CHAPTER 58

“Fruits and vegetables. That’s what it says, Kelly. Fruits and vegetables. Like it’s one category.”

I was sitting at the bottom of the fire escape, watching Johnny Apple peel his namesake with a knife and expand on the reason why.

“Doctor tells me more vegetables. I say, ‘What does that mean?’ He shows me the pyramid. With the categories.”

“Fruits and vegetables?”

“That’s right. I figure one covers for the other. Now, I love apples.” Johnny took a bite and held up the aforementioned fruit. “Good for six or seven a day. Cunt of a wife tells me I’m a dumb fuck. Like I need her to tell me that? Says they need to be green and leafy. Green and leafy? What the fuck is that?”

“Vegetables?”

“Exactly what she told me.”

“It’s not fruits
or
vegetables, Johnny. So maybe you can’t substitute one for the other.”

“You don’t like the categories?”

I shrugged. Johnny finished his apple. I finished my smoke. Then Vinny DeLuca’s hitter took a look up the stairs.

“He up there?”

“Yeah.”

“Wrapped.”

“Bubble wrap.”

Johnny chuckled. “Bubble wrap. Federal Fucking Expresso. Bet it does a nice job.”

“Where are you going to take him?”

“Better if you don’t know. Don’t worry. He won’t never be heard from.”

I stood up. Johnny put out a hand. It was full of knuckles and rings. “You don’t have to go up.”

“I got a few things I need to grab.”

Johnny shrugged. “You all right?”

“Sure.”

“Don’t look it.”

“Let’s get him out. I’ll feel a lot better.”

We went upstairs. Johnny Apple commented on the fine packing job. Then he threw the bundle over his shoulder, took it downstairs, and dumped it in his trunk. He slammed the lid and offered his hand on a job well done.

“Got something else for you, Johnny.”

The hitter’s face went blank. His hand dropped to his side. In Johnny’s line of work, no one likes surprises.

“It’s in the basement,” I said, and pointed the way. Johnny took out his gun and insisted I go first. The door to the cellar was unlocked. I pushed it open. The black duffel bag with gold trim was right where I’d left it. Johnny Apple tucked his gun into his belt and zipped the bag open.

“It’s the dope Gilmore lifted from the Korean. I counted twenty-six kilos. The Fours already took delivery on number twenty-seven. Pretty much makes your boss whole.”

Johnny zipped up the bag and carried it out to the car, where he locked it in the trunk beside Gilmore. Then he climbed behind the wheel.

“You hear me, Johnny?”

“I heard you. Not sure if my boss is gonna hear you. You understand what I’m saying?”

“I do. And I think I can live with it.”

“We’ll see. Be good, Kelly.”

“Bye, Johnny.”

Johnny Apple drove off the lot and disappeared around a corner. The rain had stopped, and the sky had cleared. I sat on the black iron stairs and had another smoke. Watched the muddy parking lot dry in the early afternoon sun. After a while I went up the stairs and walked through Gilmore’s computer a second time. Then a third. When I had what I needed, I slipped out the back door, found my own car, and left.

LOOSE ENDS

CHAPTER 59

The crisis ended with a press conference. After seventy-two hours with no new infections, the feds linked arms with the mayor and took a collective bow. There was a lot of vague talk about vaccines.
Sixty Minutes
ran a piece on CDA Labs and the emerging bioterror-industrial complex. The reality, however, was that the pathogen had just expired. Apparently of natural causes. No one seemed to understand why. And, for the moment anyway, no one really cared. Immediately after the press conference, work crews began to dismantle the quarantine fences. And the backlash began.

BioKatrina, the press called it. From the White House to City Hall. A core meltdown at all levels of government.
The New York Times
ran a piece offering a glimpse inside Chicago’s quarantine zones. Three hundred forty-three dead from the pathogen. Another two hundred from the dogs the pathogen let loose. There were just a few pictures that got through the government net, but the
Times
had them. A block of buildings reduced to chunks of rock and raw timber. Three bangers on “patrol,” smiling and pointing guns at the camera. A single body, curled in an alley, while residents, faces and mouths covered, picked through the deceased’s effects. This was America, the editorial intoned. This was ourselves.

The piece got a lot of attention for a day or two. Then was forgotten. And why not? There was money to be spent. Money to be made. Talk show hours to fill. Fresh blood in the water.

The finest minds would be enlisted. Billions pledged to the effort. It was the challenge for a generation. Render America a fortress. Impervious to a second biological attack.

I watched it all on TV, sitting among crates of booze in a single room above my local, an Irish bar called the Hidden Shamrock. I kept an eye on who got nervous. Who got their names in headlines. And who didn’t show up at all.

On the day I killed Gilmore, Molly had hit my cell five times. After that, it was mostly no one. Except the mayor’s office. And Rachel. I didn’t answer any of them. Save one.

On the second day, I got my shoulder patched. Then I drove north on Lake Shore Drive until it ended. I snaked along Sheridan, through Rogers Park and into Evanston. The folks at Northwestern were more than helpful. I knew what I wanted and found it exactly where I thought it might be. The registrar’s office was even kind enough to make copies for me.

On the morning of day three, the politicians held their press conference. I arrived at Grant Park just after five that afternoon. They were expecting a couple hundred thousand people and got almost a million, spread out on the same patch of ground where Obama had held his rally on the night he was elected. As darkness settled over the city, the crowd grew quiet. Huge flat screens flickered to life and filled with the names of those who had died. A female voice read them aloud, one by one, over the loudspeakers. After the first few, the crowd caught on and began to repeat each name. They swayed back and forth as they chanted, the litany of the dead moving like a prayer through the park. People lit candles. Strangers clung to one another. They wiped away their tears, then cried some more and even laughed. Meanwhile, the world watched.

I hung on the edges of the crowd long enough to hear Theresa Jackson’s name. Then I turned to leave. A young woman was nearby, a news credential around her neck, shooting video with a small camera. I tapped her on the shoulder.

“What’s your name?” I said.

“Missy Davis.” She stuck out her hand. I put Marcus Robinson’s notebook in it.

“You got someone in your newsroom who works gangs? Someone older than forty?”

She nodded uncertainly.

“Give them the notebook. Tell them it came from inside K Town. Tell them to get inside the burned-out buildings. Check out the doors and windows.”

“Doors and windows?”

“And check out the name on the cover.”

I left before she could ask any more questions or get her camera up and running. Maybe something would come of it. Maybe not. All I knew was I’d gotten rid of another piece of the case. And that felt like a good thing.

On day four, I drank lukewarm Budweiser and scrolled through Peter Gilmore’s laptop. Followed by Rita Alvarez’s work file. Around three o’clock I walked downstairs to the bar. A man was there, drinking a glass of beer. He had a stack of videotapes with him. We talked for a bit. Then I took the tapes upstairs and began to watch. I went to bed at eleven and slept until four-thirty the next morning. I woke up in the cool darkness and smoked a single cigarette. The street below me was asleep. I made my first call.

Our mayor wasn’t happy. I told him it might be important. And it needed to be just him and me. He said he had a full day. Speeches to give. People to see. A city to rebuild. He agreed to meet me at the Palace for coffee.

I got off the phone and stared idly at a half-dozen bottles of well vodka. Then I gathered up the belongings of the man I’d killed and set out for the West Side.