“Danielson told me you know about the lightbulbs missing from Fort Detrick?” Brazile said.
“I know there are at least two missing.”
Brazile pointed to the ground with her flashlight, then up, at a single bare light socket.
“The lab coded them with ultraviolet identification tags. Danielson gave us the key.”
“And?”
“According to Detrick’s records, this bulb was loaded with anthrax on July 6, 1996. According to the records, the anthrax was irradiated. Harmless.”
“And what about your tests? What do they tell you?”
“The Ceeker’s optical scanner is calibrated to react to and identify a chemical compound unique to the anthrax bacterium. Each scan takes ten to twelve minutes. Come over here.”
Brazile led me to a row of laptops set up on a portable worktable. Nearby, piles of soil were laid out on a pale silk sheet. Small bits of white glass glinted in the dirt.
I watched as a scientist ran the Ceeker over a sample. After what seemed like a couple of eternities, the device beeped. Sort of like a microwave. Brazile took the Ceeker into her hands and studied the readout. Then she went back to her laptop and typed in a few commands.
“Want to take a look?” Brazile leaned back so I could see the results.
“Why don’t you just give me the bottom line?”
“That was the fifth sample we’ve tested. All irradiated. All harmless.”
“Just like Danielson said.”
“Just like he said.”
On the other side of the tunnel, a couple of scientists had unloaded a half-dozen silver canisters from the aluminum cases we’d brought in and attached black hoses. Now they started covering the walls with layers of thick white foam.
“What’s with the shaving cream?” I said.
“I mentioned carbon nanotubes earlier.”
“I’m afraid you’re going to have to give me a little more than that.”
“Nanotubes are specially constructed carbon molecules that make up the hardest and most flexible substance known to man. Can’t be seen with the naked eye and have all sorts of interesting applications. In this case, the aerosol foam delivers a constellation of nanotubes that have been chemically bonded to molecules of simple carbohydrates—sugars.”
“Why?”
“Weaponized anthrax spores are attracted to sugars and bond with them. Once the weaponized spores clump up around the sugar, they become too thick to enter the lining of the lungs, making them harmless to humans. In this case, it’s just a precaution. And a chance for us to see how our prototypes work in the field.”
I stepped to one side as a scientist started to layer foam across the tracks.
“Why don’t we head topside,” Brazile said. “Call in and give them the good news.”
“What about the second bulb?”
Brazile stopped packing up her laptop. “What about it?”
“Shouldn’t we pull it before it falls?”
“There is no second bulb, Mr. Kelly.”
“How do you know that?”
“Danielson.”
“He told you that?”
Brazile nodded. “He’ll have to explain the rest. Now, you want to head up?”
“Can I get out of this suit?”
“You don’t like it?”
I took a look around, at faces I couldn’t see, conversations I couldn’t hear, death I couldn’t touch. “No, I don’t like it at all.”
“Come on. I’ll take you back to our lab.”
“What’s back there?”
“It’s called black biology. You may not like it. I may not like it. But it’s the future. And it’s coming sooner than you think.”
CHAPTER 9
Quin’s throat felt parched and swollen. He slid the rearview mirror over and took a look. His face was bright with fever. His eyes itched in their sockets, and the pressure behind his temples threatened to blow his head off his shoulders.
“Fuck me.”
Quin pulled to the curb and shook a couple of Tylenol out of a bottle. The ME’s assistant had cut him a break on the two homeless stiffs, agreeing to take them in alone and let him send over the paperwork later. Probably took one look at Quin and was worried he’d have a third body on his hands by the time he got the first two on ice.
Quin glanced at the clock on his dashboard: 8:03 a.m. The little pricks would be there, angling to get some walk-ups on their way to school. Quin slipped his car into gear.
He came in from the north, going the wrong way down Kildare at twice the speed limit. There were a half dozen of them, sitting on stoops, slumped against cars, huddled in the morning chill. They scattered when Quin was still twenty yards away. He punched the gas, then locked up the brakes and fishtailed into an alley, knocking one of the little bastards to the ground. The kid bounced up running. Or, rather, limping.
Quin jammed the car into reverse and zoomed back up the street. He ignored the rest of them and focused on the limper. Quin watched all that Discovery shit. Lions always went after the weak and the wounded. No different here.
The kid was wearing a Chicago White Sox hoodie and looking for a friendly doorway to duck into. Quin cut the wheel and bumped over the curb. The kid tried to ride the hood of the cruiser, but wasn’t as quick as he might have been. Quin pinned him against a building with the side of his car and stepped out, telescoping metal baton pressed to his thigh.
The kid was young—maybe twelve or thirteen—and squeaking, like a rat in one of those glue traps Quin used in the house his ex now owned.
“What’s your name?”
The kid continued to struggle, and then broke free. Quin grabbed him before he could get away and snapped the baton to full length.
“Can’t hear you.” Quin tapped the kid across the back of the knees and watched him crumble into the side of the building. Quin hit him again. The kid sagged the rest of the way to the ground, head level with the bumper, breath blowing in cold bursts.
They were in a stretch of the West Side called K Town. The neighborhood got its name from a series of streets that began with the letter K. In 1910, the city’s wise men picked K because the area’s eleven miles from the Illinois-Indiana border and K’s the eleventh letter of the alphabet. Quin didn’t give a shit about history. Or the alphabet. When he drove K Town, he saw one supermarket, two schools, fifty-three lottery agents, and a hundred and four bars. The place was ground zero for the Four Corner Stars, whose turf ran north and east to the edge of Garfield Park. On the other side of the park and farther south, the Six Aces held sway. Between the two gangs, they controlled most of the West Side’s drug trade. And decided who died on a daily basis. For Quin, K Town was simply Kill Town.
He took a quiet look down the block. Buildings looked back like toothless old men—chipped faces of brick gapped with black cavities where windows and doors once stood. Inside, dopers shared floor space with “families”—ten, twelve kids traveling in a pack, older ones looking out for the youngest, all of them slinging rock for the gangs.
“You with the Fours?” Quin said.
No answer.
“What did I tell you about this corner?”
Still nothing. Quin snapped out the baton again, slashing once across the ribs.
“What’s your name?”
The blank eyes that looked up told Quin the kid had been beaten by the best. The cop slid his baton back into his belt and left it there.
“Marcus,” the kid said.
Quin nodded, like he knew the name all along. “What did I tell your boss about this corner?”
“Dunno.”
“Grammar school’s a block that way.” Quin hung a flat thumb over his shoulder. “Can’t have you going after that market. Not without paying.”
The kid named Marcus raised his head a fraction. “How much?”
“Tell Ray Ray I’ll get him a number. Tell him there’s some changes coming.”
Marcus blinked and waited. Thirteen, maybe
, and already knew when to shut up.
“Tell him the Korean’s out. Your crew’s gonna be dealing directly with us for product.”
Marcus cocked his head, like he’d heard it wrong. “Police?”
“I’ll talk to him next week and explain how it’s gonna work. Meanwhile, today’s shipment is the Korean’s last. If it disappeared, I’d expect to be remembered. You got all that?”
Marcus nodded.
“Good.”
Quin kicked at a notebook and some colored pencils scattered on the ground.
“That yours?”
Marcus made a quick move. Quin stepped on his hand, bent down, and picked up the notebook. The drawings were fashioned in thick strokes. Sure, fast, breathtakingly good.
“You do these?”
Marcus drew up his shoulders and wrapped his arms around his body. Quin leafed through a few more pages. Bangers, lounging on corners, hustling cars, pushing product, laughing, posing. More from inside the kid’s house, wherever that was. An ancient addict with his works. Another kid with a shotgun, smoking. Two more, arms tangled around each other, sleeping on a floor. On the last page, a single flower, blood orange, each petal beautifully articulated, an exercise in grace.
“Not bad.”
Quin threw the notebook back to Marcus, who grabbed it and tucked it away. At the end of the street, a mom and her three kids walked past, on their way to school. The mom was talking to one of her young ones, but her eyes were working over Quin. Probably scouting for the Fours. Or looking for some product. The cop stuck out his belly and dulled his features. Just then the ground swayed and rippled under his boots. Quin grabbed the side of his cruiser for ballast.
“You okay?” Marcus was watching, eyes on the cop’s gun.
“I’m fine.” Quin reached for the door handle. The world spun one or two more times, then slowed and settled. Quin saw his own fear reflected in the kid’s face.
“Get out of here. And don’t work this corner until your boss pays.”
Marcus limped into an alley and disappeared. The mom and her brood had disappeared as well, leaving Quin alone. He slid behind the wheel and laid his forehead against the cool plastic of the steering wheel. His hands were slick with sweat, and the cop’s thick heart thumped and rolled in his chest. Probably the flu, he told himself. Just what he needed.
Quin turned over the engine. Best thing he could do was get his ass out of K Town. One way or another, fucking place would kill you.
Two miles west the cop pulled up to the M&T Food Mart and went inside. He drank a cup of black coffee and had two sugar doughnuts at the counter. He was feeling a little better and chalked it up to the doughnuts. Through the front window, Quin saw a Crown Vic with tinted windows roll to a stop in the parking lot. Quin approached the driver’s side. A voice seeped out from a crack in the window.
“You find someone to talk to?”
Quin looked around the lot. He would have preferred a little privacy, but this was what the guy wanted. And he was calling the shots. For now.
“Yeah, I talked to someone. Why don’t we take this somewhere else? I know a place down near the Ike. No one will bother us.”
In response, the driver popped open the trunk to his car. “Take a look.”
Quin walked back and found a black duffel bag with gold piping. He zipped it open and saw the dope, twenty-five, maybe thirty keys, flat packages wrapped in clear plastic. Quin zipped up the bag, closed the trunk, and walked to the front of the car.
“Couple of ’em still have evidence stickers,” Quin said.
“Think the Fours will mind?”
“We’ll clean ’em up before we deliver.”
The window slid down another six inches. The driver wore dark sunglasses and didn’t look at Quin as he spoke. “Who’d you talk to?”
“A kid. One of the runners.”
“That the best you can do?”
Quin shifted his feet and searched for a way to get a handle on the conversation. “Actually, that’s the best for us. Kids don’t usually have an angle. Take the shit seriously. And they’re not too fucked up yet, so they remember what you tell ’em.”
“Fours will get the message?”
“The guy who needs to know is named Ray Ray. Real name’s Ray Sampson. And yeah, he’ll get the message. Question is: how you gonna cut out the Korean?”
“Let me worry about that.”
Quin lifted his hands and took a step back. “Not a problem.”
“You afraid of the Korean?”
“Word is he’s got some muscle. Can hit pretty hard.”
“He’d hit cops?”
“Why not?”
“How much is he paying you?”
Quin tipped a hand back and forth. “Maybe twenty a key.”
“And how often you have a shipment for him?”
“We’ve been able to deliver three, four times a year. About twenty keys each time.”
“So you clear four hundred K, three, four times a year.”
“That’s about right.”
“One point five mil. Split a dozen ways?”
Quin squinted at all the higher math. “Roughly.”
“Korean steps on the shit, sells it to the Fours. They step on it three more times. Fuck. You should be clearing six times that.”
“They have distribution.”
“And you have product, Quin. Or, rather, I have product. And a lot more of it.”
Quin let his gaze drift back to the trunk. The driver nodded. “Make sure the Korean gets his today.”
“Price?”
“Keep it at twenty.”
Quin chuckled to himself. Wholesale on the street was twenty-two a key. He’d push for twenty-three and pocket the difference.
“Couple of the uniforms are gonna take it down,” Quin said.
“They deliver it in a marked vehicle?”
The cop grinned. “Fuck, yeah. Bangers love it.”
“I bet. What about the Aces?”
“Aces are weak right now,” Quinn said with a shrug.
“So we don’t sell to them?”
“Didn’t say that. Five years ago, they were on the verge of pushing the Fours out of business.”
“What happened?”
“Ray Ray happened. Guy’s smart. Keeps things tight. Good for business. Good for us.”
The driver nodded to the back again and popped the trunk a second time. Quin took a quick look around the lot and transferred the duffel to his cruiser. Then he returned to the driver’s-side window.
“You look like shit, Quin.”
“Got the flu. After I finish up with this, gonna go home and hit the sack.”
The Crown Vic shifted out of neutral. “Take care of the dope first.”
Quin stepped away from the car and thought about the different ways he might shoot his new boss in the face. Detective Vince Rodriguez rolled up his window and drove off to find some breakfast.
CHAPTER 10
Marcus Robinson circled through Garfield Park before heading home. His ribs were sore, and the police car had banged up the side of his hip, but Marcus was moving all right. He found a seat on a bench near the conservatory and watched as a white woman wearing a pink-and-blue hat dragged a boy and a girl toward a sign for the azalea and hydrangea exhibit. The boy caught Marcus’s eye as they went past and looked away. Good idea. Marcus pulled out his notebook and pencils. He’d been inside the conservatory once, but it was hot and he’d felt eyes on him the whole time. So he’d started sitting outside, drawing the gardens. Bursts of color in the spring and summer. Long rectangles of grass and dead squares of dirt in the fall. Heavy snow covering white statues in the winter. His own private art gallery.
Today, however, Marcus ignored the beauty around him and focused on the ugly within. A few harsh strokes with his pencil and the cop’s face surfaced—lips split, lower body dissolving into cracks between black paving stones. Bugs, thick ones, covered the cop’s upper body. A snake, rising from the ea
rth, wrapped its heavy coils around his legs. The cop’s mouth hollowed into a silent scream; his hands reached up off the page. Marcus’s pencil scratched to a halt. He looked at the image and turned it sideways. Then he flipped the notebook shut.
The gardens were quiet. Sunlight bled through a gray gauze of clouds. Someone was inside the conservatory, washing the large windows with a long-handled mop. A young white woman came around a turn in the walking path. She was heavy with child and moved her stomach with her hands as she found a seat on the bench.
“What you doing?” she said.
“Nothing.” Marcus opened his notebook and began to draw again. The woman was watching his hands. She was a doper, drifting between gangs on the West Side, spending some fool’s money when he let her, turning out on the street when she got kicked to the curb. Marcus had heard about her. Heard she was going to sell the baby once it was born.
“What you drawing?” the woman said, eyes creeping across the small space between them.
“Nothing.”
“I know you?”
He looked. A thin sweater stretched over her belly, and she had a yellow-and-red rose carved into her neck.
“No.”
“You with the Fours?”
Marcus shook his head and flattened his eyes back onto the notebook. The boy felt a slow, tight churn in his stomach and slashed with the pencil. She inched closer, her breathing labored with the effort.
“You want a suck?”
He looked up again. She was shivering, but not from the chill. Marcus hated dopers. And hated the baby inside her.
“No.”
“Give you a suck if you want it.” Her eyes directed him to a row of threadbare rosebushes.
Marcus thought about a knife. Then he flipped his notebook shut and got up from the bench.
“Maybe you don’t like pussy?” The woman’s laugh wormed a little farther into his brain. Marcus limped down the path. After a few yards, his hip loosened, and he began to jog.
Home was an abandoned building on a hacked-off piece of street just west of Garfield. Marcus didn’t know the name of the street, but they’d been there three months. Marcus liked it, mostly because the buildings on either side were empty. Really empty. The Fours had cleaned them out and kept them that way. Marcus’s older brother, James, told him it was because that was where they stashed money and product. Marcus didn’t care. It was quiet. And quiet was good.
We All Fall Down Page 4
