by J. D. Barker
“I don’t want to give you your clean shot. I’m fairly certain you’d take it.”
“You got that right,” Nash replied under his breath.
He considered opening the closed doors but thought better of it. He knew where Bishop was; the strange echo downstairs was gone. Whenever Bishop spoke, his voice clearly came from that final room at the end of the hall. As he approached the opening, his grip tightened on the gun. “I’m coming in, Bishop. Don’t try anything stupid.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it.”
That final room was a large unfurnished bedroom with a boarded window on the far wall and a closet behind double louvered doors on the left. Like the rest of the house, wallpaper curled away from the cracked plasterboard, the lattice visible beneath. An old ceiling fan hung from nothing but a single wire at the center of the room, ready to fall with the slightest provocation.
Near the boarded window, kneeling on the floor with his back to the door, his hands clasped together and head bowed as if in prayer, was Anson Bishop.
Nash pointed his gun at the back of the man’s head. “Don’t move, you piece of shit.”
19
Clair
Day 5 • 9:23 AM
The basement of John H. Stroger, Jr. Hospital was enormous. Aside from that, it was a cluttered mess. Years of discarded medical equipment filled nearly every available space—gurneys, beds, IV stands, wheelchairs—then there were boxes. It was obvious at some point someone had tried to keep it all organized, but it was also obvious that had been years ago. Although rooms were labeled, at this point those tags were no more than polite suggestions. If the staff needed to rid themselves of something, it went wherever it fit and was forgotten. The only space they found in relatively neat condition was the hospital’s HVAC room, and that was where Clair had found Ernest Skow. A black man in his sixties, sitting on a milk crate wearing filthy overalls, and attempting to eat a breakfast sandwich when she, Stout, and the three other security guards Stout had ordered to help in the search had exited the elevator.
“Ernest, call me Ernest,” he insisted, finishing off the sandwich and brushing the crumbs from his lips. “Now what’s this about tunnels?”
Clair said, “Bootlegging tunnels. They run under most of the city. A lot of these older buildings, and even some of the new ones have access.”
Ernest scratched at the stubble on his chin. “I’ve been working down here the better part of two decades, and I ain’t ever noticed tunnels.”
“How well do you know this basement?” Stout asked.
The man cocked his head. “I know the equipment, the hardware I maintain. As for the rest, I don’t go out there. That’s not my business.”
“Do you know where the phone lines come into the building? The phone company leases some of the tunnels for equipment,” Clair said.
His eyes rolled toward the ceiling, and he scratched his chin again. “I believe they come in on the west wall. There’s another bank of elevators over there, and I hear the tech guys plodding around that part of the basement every once in a while. They don’t venture over to this side much. Must be over there.”
“Show us.”
As Ernest led them through the maze of discarded equipment, Clair’s eyes kept landing on the gurneys—some stood alone, others had been used to transport old equipment and boxes and still rested under their charge. Several were broken and scattered about. There were many of them, though, and Clair wondered if this was where Bishop found the ones he used for Emory and Guther Herbert. Both had been handcuffed to gurneys, and you couldn’t exactly pick them up at the local Walmart.
Ernest pointed up at the ceiling. “Those are phone lines, the gray ones. The blue cables are Internet.”
Dozens of thick cables, all bound together with zip ties and fastened to the concrete ceiling with brackets. All eyes were on the ceiling as they followed the bundle of wires deeper into the basement. When they finally reached the outer wall, the cables disappeared through a four-inch round hole in the concrete foundation sealed up tight with a rubber gasket.
No tunnel. No visible openings.
“Shit,” Clair muttered, her eyes drifting up and down the wall. “I thought for sure…”
Stout had turned left at the wall and was following it, inching along with one hand pressing on the concrete as if some secret passage might reveal itself if he tripped a hidden lever.
Clair stared at the smooth concrete wall. “What year was this place built?”
Ernest didn’t hesitate. “1912. That I do know.”
“The tunnels were started around 1899,” Clair replied. “Makes sense they would have used them here. This concrete looks more recent. I wonder if they covered them up.”
“The foundation was reinforced back in the eighties. None of this is original construction. I suppose they could have sealed them up in the process.”
Clair’s phone rang—Kloz.
She answered and pressed it to her ear. “Yeah?”
“Paul Upchurch is awake.”
Her brow furrowed. “What? They said he wouldn’t—”
“He’s talking,” Klozowski interrupted. “You need to get up there.”
20
Diary
“Keep your voice down!” Paul told me, even though I hadn’t said anything and the volume of his own voice was loud enough to carry.
We were crawling through the tall grass behind the house, about halfway to the barn.
“I think I see them,” he said, raising his head just enough to see out over the field. “About fifty feet before the barn.”
I raised my own head, and he grabbed me by the shoulder and tugged me back down. “They’ll see you!”
I frowned at him. “Did they see you?”
“No, but I’m stealthy. I’m like a ghost ninja. Practically invisible. Nobody sees me unless I want them to.”
The girls had left the parlor the moment Ms. Finicky turned her back—rushing down the hallway and out the back door. Libby hadn’t stepped into the room at all, but I watched her shadow shrink away with the other two. I heard the patter of three pairs of feet leave the house. Finicky had taken the camera from Paul and ushered both of us out of the room, too. When we got to the foot of the stairs, he grabbed my arm and nodded toward the front door.
A moment later, we were outside, rounding the house.
“We’ll give them a twenty count, then go after them. We don’t want to be too close behind.”
“Too close behind for what?”
Paul rolled his eyes. “To watch them. They clearly want us to watch them. Why else would they stop by the parlor dressed like that?”
“Maybe because it was on the way out?” I offered.
“God, you’re naive when it comes to the ways of the modern woman.”
I think I wanted you to see.
Ms. Carter’s words echoed into my head from nowhere.
“Kristina was clearly flirting with you, and Tegan could barely keep her hands off me,” Paul said. “You need to learn to read the signals.”
“The signals?”
“All girls send signals. Like a homing beacon, or a siren’s song. Do you really think they wanted to sunbathe?” He shook his head. “No way. They’re lying around in the grass half-naked because they want us to watch.”
Somewhere nearby, a girl giggled.
Paul pulled me closer to the ground. “Shit!”
Neither of us said anything for a minute or two, then he slowly raised his head again, just enough to see through the grass.
“Do you see them?”
“Uh huh,” he said softly. “It’s glorious.”
He crawled on his belly about ten more feet, and I followed. When we stopped, I could hear the girls talking, but I couldn’t make out the words. I pushed myself up on my elbows. I saw them then. Tegan was closest, lying on her towel on her belly, facing away from us. Kristina was beside her, also on her belly. She had her knees bent, her bare legs curled up behind her, abse
ntmindedly swaying around. Libby was there, too, on the opposite side of both girls. I could barely see her, just a hint of a foot.
“I want to go around to the other side.” I said.
“Why? Tegan is right there and—oh, shit—”
Tegan had reached around to her back and untied the string of her top. “Can you put lotion on me?”
We had edged close enough to hear her.
Kristina sat up with a bottle of lotion in her hand and squirted a little on Tegan’s back and began to rub it in. “Just a little,” Kristina said. “They said they wanted us to lose the tan lines.”
“I don’t want to burn.”
“We won’t stay out long,” Kristina replied. “You should lose these, too.” She tugged at the string on Tegan’s bottoms, and they fell away. Just like that.
Beside me, Paul gasped. I might have, too.
“No more than thirty minutes,” Tegan said. “I can’t look like a lobster.”
Kristina turned around, faced Libby. “I’m not sure if lotion is good for bruises or bad.”
“I don’t think it can hurt,” Tegan said. “They’ll fade. They’re already going away. I think we can hide them with a little cover-up if we need to.”
“Maybe a little lotion.”
This voice was neither Tegan or Kristina. It had come from Libby.
“Just be careful with the spot on my back. That one still hurts pretty bad.”
21
Nash
Day 5 • 9:25 AM
Kneeling, facing away from Nash and toward the boarded window, was Anson Bishop. He didn’t turn as Nash entered the room, he didn’t move at all. His body remained as still as a corpse, posed in much the same way as the bodies found earlier today.
“Please tell me there are three white boxes holding your various bits on the ground in front of you,” Nash said as stepped closer, the barrel of his gun trained on the other man.
Bishop didn’t reply.
The beam from Nash’s flashlight caused Bishop’s shadow to stretch across the room and rise up on the far wall, a creature of long sharp lines.
The floor groaned under Nash’s weight. He cautiously stepped around Bishop.
Bishop’s eyes were closed. “How’s Sam? I worry about him.”
“Do you have any weapons on you?”
“I do not.”
Bishop wore only a gray sweatshirt, jeans, and hiking boots. A heavy jacket, scarf, and hat were balled up on the floor in the far corner of the room. There was no furniture.
Using the toe of his shoe, Nash lifted the back of Bishop’s sweatshirt. No gun. “Put your hands behind your head.”
Bishop did as he was told.
“Clasp your fingers together.”
Bishop did.
That’s when Nash noticed the sign.
Propped against Bishop’s chest, identical to the one found on the body in the cemetery, was a cardboard sign. Only, this one didn’t say, “Father, forgive me,” this sign said, “I Surrender.”
“Where’s the rest of the virus?” Nash said.
Bishop’s eyes remained closed. “What virus?”
Nash pressed the barrel of his gun into Bishop’s temple, ground the metal into his skin. “Sam’s the patient one, not me. I’ve got zero problem ending you right here and telling everyone I found you that way. Do you think anyone would care? The city would probably throw a parade. I’ve got a hospital full of sick people. I’m going to ask you one last time, where is the rest of the virus?”
Bishop licked his lips. “Aren’t hospitals usually filled with sick people?”
Nash kicked him.
His foot hauled back and slammed into Bishop’s chest before he even realized he did it. And it felt damn good. “Do you think the families of those two women this morning would care if I threw you through that fucking window? Where the hell is the rest of the virus?”
With the kick, Bishop had doubled over, but somehow he managed to keep his fingers interlaced on the back of his head, and after several coughs, he caught his breath and straightened back up. “I’ve clearly surrendered to a member of Chicago Metro. I’ve made no attempt at hostility. No aggressive moves. Yet this detective feels it is necessary to use force against me, threaten my life. This is why I invited you here, to witness this. To document the way I knew he would treat me. The way I have been treated from the beginning. Chicago Metro wants me as a scapegoat. All they’re trying to do is protect their own. This man, Detective Brian Nash, is Sam Porter’s partner. They’ve been friends for many years. I don’t know how deep into it this detective is, but he’s clearly dirty, maybe as dirty as Porter. I am innocent of everything these people have accused me of.”
Nash’s face burned red as he stared down at him. “Who the hell are you talking to?”
The wind kicked up outside, and the house groaned.
Bishop opened his eyes for the first time and nodded toward the corner of the room. Sitting in the dust and filth of the neglected hardwood floor, surrounded by cobwebs and grime, was a small GoPro camera. The tiny lens faced out into the room, faced the two of them.
With the heel of his shoe, Nash crushed it with a satisfying crunch. Stomped on it again, several more times, until it was nothing but a mangled mess.
This didn’t seem to bother Bishop in the slightest. A smile grew on his lips. “I didn’t trust you to bring me in clean, so I called Channel Seven before I called you. Your friend Lizeth Loudon. They placed the camera. They’re recording the live feed from next door. You asked me why this building,” Bishop looked up at him. “That’s why.”
Nash looked from Bishop to the smashed camera under his foot, then back again. His heart felt like it might burst through his rib cage. He took a step back and cupped his hand over the small microphone attached to the collar of his jacket. “Poole, can you hear me? Get your team in here, now.”
22
Clair
Day 5 • 9:26 AM
After surgery, Paul Upchurch was moved to an isolation room at the far end of ICU on the fifth floor. Clair rode the elevator up from the basement, and Dr. Beyer met her in the hallway. His hair was slightly disheveled, and his eyes appeared a little weary, but beyond that, he looked better than she expected for a man plucked from his life and dropped into the center of this mess.
“The hospital tells me they have nearly a dozen people experiencing flu-like symptoms right now associated with the SARS virus.”
“Uh huh,” Clair said from behind her mask. Her eyes itched, and she fought the urge to sneeze again. She wasn’t about to discuss the happenings of her stomach and gastrointestinal tract—she’d had more pleasant experiences after a night of binge-eating Mexican.
Beyer wore a mask, too, but he didn’t look sick. “Are you…” The words trailed off, because he already knew the answer. “You were exposed earlier than most.”
“I’m fine.”
“You don’t look fine. You should have someone administer a saline drip. You’re dehydrated.”
“I’m just tired. We haven’t caught a break in this case in days. Things are just getting worse.”
He took her by the wrist and pinched the skin on the back of her hand. “See how your skin tents and doesn’t immediately go back? You’re losing elasticity, a sure sign of dehydration.” He released her hand. “Are they treating you at all?”
Clair shrugged. “They gave me a shot of something earlier to boost my immune system. Aside from that, there’s not much they can do. I’ll ask about the saline.” She nodded toward the hall. “Look, I appreciate your concern, but I’ve got a job to do here—what did Upchurch tell you?”
Dr. Beyer looked back down the hallway. “We removed the ventilator tube as a standard postoperative test to see whether or not he was capable of involuntary actions such as breathing and swallowing on his own. I fully expected to replace the tube immediately, but he coughed, then he grabbed my arm.” The doctor paused for a moment to consider this. He rubbed at his forearm. “I d
on’t understand it. The parts of his brain that control speech and reasoning have been decimated. He shouldn’t comprehend what a word is anymore, let alone have the ability to construct a sentence.”
“Doctor, what did he say?”
Dr. Beyer started walking again, back toward ICU. “A name. I couldn’t make it out at first. He struggled to get it out, then he repeated the name several times—Sarah…Sarah Werner. Does that mean anything to you?”
At this point, Clair knew the name well, but she still had no idea who Sarah Werner really was. Sam had called her from Werner’s phone. They had learned that Sam had spent the last two days bouncing around the country with a woman he believed to be Sarah Werner. They also knew the real Sarah Werner, a New Orleans attorney, was dead and had been for several weeks now, her body left to rot in her apartment. A prison guard in New Orleans, a man named Vincent Weidner, had also asked for Sarah Werner when he was taken into custody. He, along with the woman pretending to be Werner, the one with Sam, had broken another woman out of that same prison. That woman had been found dead here in Chicago in the lobby of the Guyon Hotel. Sam was apparently the shooter. Something she knew in her heart couldn’t possibly be true. Sam had told Poole the woman he knew as Sarah Werner was actually Bishop’s mother. So, was Upchurch asking for her or the dead attorney?
“Through here,” Dr. Beyer said, ushering her through a series of doors into a small antechamber. He handed her a sealed package containing clothing. “You’ll need to put this on. He’d never survive contact with the virus. We can’t risk contamination.”
“You sure know how to make a girl feel welcome.” Clair tore open the package and tugged on the disposable yellow plastic suit. He handed her a pair of matching boots and a large mask that covered her entire head and fastened to the rest of the suit with some kind of sticky seam on contact. He fastened a belt around her waist which held a small air tank. The hose snapped into the back of her suit. The moment it clicked into place, she felt the rush of cool air all around her.
