We All Fall Down mk-4

by Michael Harvey

  Rissman slipped back into the room and gave his boss a thumbs-up.

  “You sure?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Wilson grunted and pulled off the mask. His face looked like a boiled piece of Sunday beef, with imprints from the mask running down both cheeks. The mayor grabbed the can of Diet Coke and drank.

  “Fucking thing’s hot as hell, too.”

  “Why did you take it off?” I said.

  Wilson nodded toward Rissman. “They set up some sort of biosensor bullshit. Mark checks them every hour. Makes sure the room is clean.”

  “If the room’s clean, why wear the suit in the first place?”

  “Why?”

  I nodded.

  “ ’Cuz I’m not an asshole. That’s why.”

  “You like to have a backup plan?”

  “You know someone like me who doesn’t?”

  “I don’t know anyone like you, Mr. Mayor.”

  “Fucking right.”

  There was a knock on the door. A woman with a countenance that was just short of desperate stuck her head in. She carried a tray full of square sponges, brown brushes, and flesh-colored powders.

  “Mr. Mayor, I need to do your face.”

  Wilson checked his watch. “What time are we on, Mark?”

  “Not sure yet, sir.”

  “Half hour, Renee.” Wilson waved the door shut.

  “Got a press conference?” I said.

  “You know we do.” Wilson stood up and stripped off the rest of his protective gear. Rissman hung it all up in a closet. The mayor wore a white T-shirt underneath.

  “Who’s running the show?” I said.

  “Who do you think?” The mayor waved impatiently at Rissman who pulled a dress shirt and dark blue business suit out of the closet. Wilson stripped down to a plaid pair of boxers and a very large belly. He looked around the room, arms akimbo, daring anyone to notice. When no one did, the mayor of Chicago began to get dressed.

  “Feds will go first,” Wilson said, picking up a light blue tie from a selection laid out on the bed, then switching to red.

  “First?” I said.

  “Officials from the federal government will speak from the Dirksen Building,” Rissman said. “They’ll outline the dimensions of the problem. Then the mayor will speak live.”

  “From here?” I gestured to the lights and stick-on fireplace.

  Wilson tugged at the Windsor knot he’d created and rubbed the creases out of his face. “I’ll speak to Chicago from the frontlines. Show them there’s nothing to fear.”

  “I assume you’re not going on in your space suit over there?”

  “Funny guy.” Wilson stepped away from the mirror and sat down on the couch. “Let’s talk about what you found in the Korean’s cellar.”

  “Go ahead,” I said.

  Wilson glanced up at Rissman. “Ten thousand?”

  “About,” Rissman said.

  “Ten thousand body bags. Sitting in the basement of a drug dealer. A day before a bioweapon is released in my city.”

  There was a knock at the door. Rissman told whoever it was to go away.

  “What are you suggesting?” I said.

  “Why don’t you tell me how you knew about the cellar?”

  “All due respect, why should I tell you anything?”

  I could hear Rissman’s silent scream from across the room. Wilson barely stirred.

  “Danielson got himself killed in your apartment today.” The mayor’s voice rustled now, deep in the weeds.

  “I know. I was there.”

  “Feds might like to talk to you about that.”

  “That’s not your style, Mr. Mayor.”

  “Don’t make that mistake, son.”

  I nodded to a phone on a table by the window. “Make the call.”

  Wilson rubbed two fingers together in protest. “Fair enough.” He poured what was left of his Diet Coke from can to glass and watched the bubbles bubble. Then he drained the glass.

  “We need to track down the bags, Kelly. And whoever was behind them.”

  “I’m thinking you might not want that.”

  “What the hell does that mean?”

  I shrugged and pretended to look out the window. Wilson glanced at Rissman, who closed the door behind him as he left.

  “You want something?” Wilson said.

  I shook my head. The mayor got himself another Diet Coke from a small refrigerator. “I used to love sugar. Now they tell me I might be diabetic. I ask ‘What does that mean?’ Either I am, or I’m not. So they tell me I’m not. But no more sugar. Just in case I am. ‘When will you know for sure?’ I say. They tell me they’ll know when I’m dead and they get to cut me open. Fucking doctors.” Wilson put the can back in the fridge and pulled out a Mountain Dew.

  “You study the classics in school?” I said.

  “Priests force-fed me three years.” Wilson took a sip of his Dew and belched.

  “You ever read Sophocles’s Oedipus?”

  “I’m not interested in humping my mother, if that’s where you’re headed.”

  “Oedipus’s downfall was precipitated by his insatiable need to discover the truth. Coupled with an arrogant belief that no matter what he discovered, Oedipus could handle it. Fix the problem.”

  “English, Kelly?”

  “There’s a chance you might be involved.”

  “In what?”

  “The body bags.”

  “Me?”

  “Your office.”

  “How?”

  “Maybe you don’t want to know.”

  “I want to know.”

  “You asked what led me to Lee’s grocery store.”

  “Yeah.”

  “I was working a case. Actually, an old standby. Corruption in Chicago politics. I don’t have a name for you yet, but someone downtown is running no-bid medical supply contracts for county business.”

  “With this Korean?”

  “He was in the middle of it, yes.”

  “And you think the body bags were part of that?”

  “Right now, I don’t know what to think.”

  “It’s bullshit.”

  I took out the piece of paper Danielson had given me and slipped it across the table.

  “Danielson gave me an address today. Right before he put a gun in his mouth. He thought it might be a lead on who released the weapon.”

  Wilson looked at the note but didn’t touch it.

  “The paper’s got your name on it, Mr. Mayor. The name of the Korean’s trucking company, Silver Line, and his address. The same address I was given on the medical supply scam. Same address I was at last night. Same address where I found the body bags and a stack of gangbangers looking for their dope.”

  Wilson peeled his eyes off the note. “What do you want from me?”

  “Why would someone drop your name to Danielson?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Tell me what you do know.”

  “What I do know?” Wilson chuckled at the notion. “Your fucking head would explode. Listen, do people in my office cut corners sometimes? Who doesn’t?”

  “When I look at City Hall, I tend to think biblical. Greed, Envy, Lust, Gluttony. Maybe a double helping of Gluttony.”

  “No one’s going to release a weapon like that just to make some cash selling body bags.”

  “Agreed,” I said. “But if someone happened to know about the release, they might try to make a quick buck.”

  There was another knock on the door. Renee stuck her head in.

  “Give us another minute,” the mayor said.

  Renee left. Wilson walked himself to the windows. The black sprawl of the West Side lay below, outlined in soft sketches of pink. “From up here, the place cleans up pretty well.”

  “When do the fences go up?” I said.

  The mayor turned, voice and eyebrows rising in tandem. “You know about that?”

  “Quarantine fences. Sealing off three sections of the We
st Side and an area of Oak Park. Including the building we’re sitting in.”

  We both looked around the room, suddenly the more sinister for its location.

  “We’ll go on air once they start,” Wilson said. “Feds think they’ll have most of the fences finished by dawn.”

  “You have any say in that?”

  The mayor shook his head. “For the last five hours, the area’s been operating under martial law.”

  “You gonna use that term in your dog-and-pony show?”

  “Hell, no.”

  “I went on the city’s Web site today, Mr. Mayor. You have one page of information on biological and chemical weapons. The gist of it is this: cover your nose and mouth; wash your hands with soap and water; watch TV.”

  “You think any of us like this?”

  I let my eyes travel back to the windows. I could see the lights and hear the steady thump of a chopper in the night. “Can I still get out of here?”

  “Leave it for tomorrow. We’ll get you out.”

  “Who’s we?”

  “Don’t worry about it.” Wilson got up and moved to the door. “I’ve got the top two floors in this place. Find a hole and climb in. Watch some TV. Once we get started, I’m gonna be the only thing on.”

  “Good luck.”

  “No shit. And, Kelly?”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Come tomorrow, do what you have to. If the bags come back to this office, give me the courtesy of a call before the feds. I’ll do the right thing.”

  “Can I believe that, Mr. Mayor?”

  “You think I love my city?”

  “Actually, I do.”

  “All right, then. Now get out of here and let me lead.”

  QUARANTINE

  Some died in neglect, others in the midst of every attention. No remedy was found that could be used as a specific; for what did good in one case, did harm in another. Strong and weak constitutions proved equally incapable of resistance, all alike being swept away, although dieted with the utmost precaution. By far the most terrible feature in the malady was the dejection which ensued when any one felt himself sickening, for the despair into which they instantly fell took away their power of resistance, and left them a much easier prey to the disorder; besides which, there was the awful spectacle of men dying like sheep, through having caught the infection in nursing each other.

  THUCYDIDES, HISTORY OF THE PELOPONNESIAN WAR, BOOK 2, CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 33

  They waited until dark to bring in the fences. Workers dressed in NBC suits unloaded trucks and took crowbars to crates. They dug posts and unrolled lengths of steel mesh. Two layers of fencing went up, with twenty yards of space in between. Each was topped with a double strand of concertina wire, the outer fence also covered over with sheets of reinforced wood so no one could see in. Or out.

  The barriers were constructed under the silent and subtle protection of Chicago police, who diverted traffic, and federal agents, who dealt with any “problems” along the perimeter. Under an emergency federal order, all television and cell phone signals inside the “protected zones” were jammed at 11:00 p.m., replaced by a message telling citizens the outage was a planned one and “limited service” would be restored by seven the next morning. Washington also hit its Internet kill switch, shutting down ISP providers inside the affected areas.

  Just before midnight, the government posted soldiers at the front doors to Cook County Hospital, Rush Medical Center, and Mount Sinai Hospital. Twenty minutes after the soldiers showed up, the staff at Cook walked out. The doctors and nurses told officials they wouldn’t go back into the ER until they got NBC suits, just like the guys with the guns. For half of the staff, it wouldn’t matter. They were already infected.

  A mixture of Homeland Security, FBI, and military filtered into the streets. Clad in NBC suits and carrying automatic weapons, they shut down all major intersections and closed whatever was still open-mostly bars and restaurants, gas stations, convenience and liquor stores. They herded people back to their homes, arresting anyone who gave them trouble and arranging “temporary shelter” for those who were stranded in a restricted area.

  Reactions ran the gamut. Some people screamed at the hooded figures with guns. Others fainted. Three went into cardiac arrest. On the West Side, bangers and wannabes alike broke out windows and took what they wanted while they could. In Oak Park, people grabbed for their cell phones-a primal urge, apparently, both to share their outrage and record it. Overall, however, regular folks mostly went along. That surprised Washington, but the reality was when a cop in an NBC suit pointed a gun and told you to stay inside, you did exactly that. Until someone told you different.

  CHAPTER 34

  Three miles east of the rising fence lines, Missy Davis’s night already had “suck” written all over it. Missy went to Vassar, summa cum laude, fifth in her class, should have been first. Yale Law School wanted her. Or at least they’d sent her a letter. So did Stanford and the University of Chicago. She settled on Northwestern and a master’s in journalism. It was supposed to be a Christiane Amanpour redux, or some Anglo-Saxon version of such. It wasn’t supposed to be the overnight assignment desk. She ripped another piece of copy off the printer and trudged it across Channel Six’s newsroom.

  “Missy, print out a hard copy of the ten o’clock rundown as well, will you?”

  Ted Henderson was the overnight news editor and her boss. Missy had Ted pegged from the opening moments of her job interview. He’d worn a starched blue shirt with a black bow tie and had trouble moving his eyes from Missy’s legs (which had looked appropriately spectacular that day in a Zac Posen print). He’d offered her the position ten minutes into the interview. She’d smiled and accepted. And here she was, stuck in newsroom hell with a career middle manager, ripping scripts and running feeds to nowhere.

  Missy dumped the rundown onto Ted’s desk and walked back to her own. Missy had four TVs tuned to the competition, a bank of police scanners, and a two-way so she could talk to her street crews and live trucks. It was past midnight, and the assignment desk should have been fairly quiet. It wasn’t. A little over an hour ago, there’d been reports of a possible hazardous-materials spill on the West Side. She’d sent a photographer over, a veteran stringer by the name of Dino Pillizzi. Dino had tried a couple different routes to the reported accident, but was turned away by police. Dino couldn’t figure it out. Neither could Missy.

  “I just got another text from Dino,” Missy said.

  “What does he say?” They were the only ones in the newsroom, and Ted Henderson spoke without looking up from his computer screen.

  “He still can’t get into the haz mat.”

  “Tell him to buy a fucking map.”

  “He’s not lost. He can’t get in.”

  Ted stopped typing. “What are you talking about?”

  “He claims they’ve got the area shut down.”

  “Who’s ‘they’?”

  “Chicago PD. He’s tried three different routes. Nothing but roadblocks.”

  Ted walked over to the assignment desk. Missy pointed to a map she’d pulled up on one of the monitors. “He’s been here on Madison. Then went south and looped around. Then doubled back and came in on Ogden. Dino says it’s a perimeter.”

  “What the fuck does Dino know about a perimeter?”

  “He says he saw them hauling in fencing.”

  “Fencing?”

  “He shot some footage but couldn’t get close enough to see where the trucks were going.”

  Ted sat down beside Missy and studied the map some more. “What’s been on the scanner?”

  “I told you. A possible level-three haz mat. Came across about ten-thirty. One repeat, a half hour after that.”

  “Any address?”

  Missy shook her head. “Just a Garfield Park locator.”

  “And nothing since then?”

  “Nope. No police. No fire.” Missy took a sip of her soda, tapped her foot, and waited.
>
  “Anyone else running after this?” Ted said.

  “Five might have sent someone over, but I’m not sure.”

  “Can you find out?”

  “Maybe.”

  “What time is the chopper up?”

  “Four a.m. I can call it in earlier.”

  Ted began a slow drift back to his desk. “What’s the latest on the outbreak over at Cook?”

  “Mayor did a gangbang at the hospital around six. Said everything was under control. Then they cleared us out. We led with it at ten.”

  “How many sick?”

  “Eleven confirmed deaths. Nothing specific on total number of sick.”

  “What’re you hearing?”

  “Latest speculation is E. coli. Before that it was bird flu and H1N1. There’s a rumor the CDC’s got its nose in it, but nothing official. It’s the West Side, so who knows?”

  “We have anyone at Cook now?”

  “I told you, they cleared us out. All statements are coming from downtown. I’ve got a crew staked out there all night.”

  “Get Dino on the phone and transfer him over.”

  Missy reached for the two-way just as one of her inside lines lit up. She cradled the receiver between her shoulder and ear as she composed another text to her cameraman. “Yeah? What’s that?” A pause. “Where?”

  Ted swung his head in her direction. Missy found herself pointing at him for no particular reason. “Hang on a second.” She put the call on hold.

  “What is it?” Ted said.

  “They took a call on one of the outside lines. Some guy from Oak Park. Claims police are rounding up people with guns. Says they’re wearing masks and some kind of protective suits.”

  “Oak Park?”

  “That’s what they said.” Missy could hear the dry patch in her voice and forced herself to swallow.

  “Have you talked to the guy?” Ted said.

  Missy pointed to a blinking light on her console. “He was in his car and got cut off. The operator who took the call is on two.”

  “Get Dino on the phone. And put the operator through to Jim’s line.”

  Ted began to wind his way back to the privacy of the news director’s office.