“You don’t like being a decoy?” I said.
“How about I don’t like supplying bangers with product?”
“Fours got a new king.”
“Marcus Robinson? He won’t last the summer.”
I shrugged. “Either way, maybe I can help.”
Rodriguez grunted and stared down the block. Police had cordoned off State and Superior with blue police barriers. Beyond that, a crowd had formed, waiting for a glimpse of someone halfway famous. A woman took our picture and waved. I waved back.
“Who was that?” Rodriguez said.
“Nobody. She just waved.”
“Fucking celebrities now.”
Holy Name’s front doors swung open and the church began to empty. Rodriguez and I moved to one side. I was half watching the faces, wondering why I’d come to this at all, when I got a nudge in the ribs. I looked at Rodriguez, then followed his eyes. Molly Carrolton floated past, hidden by a large black hat and buried in a cluster of suits. I felt for the gun that wasn’t on my hip. She turned, her eyes taking me in without absorbing a bit of it. Then she threw me back onto the cathedral’s steps and stepped right over me. Into a limo and was gone.
“Guess there’s not gonna be much of a trial,” Rodriguez said.
I was about to respond when Holy Name’s front doors swung open again and men with dark glasses and earpieces came out. The VP wasn’t far behind, Wilson hanging on his elbow. They stopped just inside the entrance to talk to the cardinal.
“How’s our mayor doing?” Rodriguez said.
“BBC News led their broadcast last night with a feature on his lifestyle.”
“I didn’t know he had a lifestyle.”
Rissman popped out of the clutter. Wilson nodded as his chief of staff leaned close and whispered. The mayor was staring at me now. A hint of something tugged at his lips. I slid a pair of sunglasses off the top of my head and felt immediately better behind them.
“What’s gonna happen with him?” Rodriguez said, nodding toward Rissman. I’d filled Rodriguez in on the mayor’s aide and his plans to undo his boss.
“Don’t know.”
“He’s been at everything the mayor’s attended,” Rodriguez said. “At least everything I’ve seen.”
“You don’t think Wilson knows what he’s doing?”
“None better. I just wonder how.”
“It’s never simple,” I said, just as Wilson’s limo pulled up. The mayor offered a final good-bye to the VP and the cardinal. Then he tucked into the back, alone, and left. My eyes tracked Rissman as he disappeared up Superior Street. I felt my feet following. Rodriguez tugged at my arm.
“Where you going?”
I didn’t know. But I went anyway. Rodriguez went with me. We walked east on Superior and turned right on Wabash, just in time to see Rissman duck into an alley.
“What’s down there?” I said.
“There’s a small lot in the back. City uses it when the big shots are at the cathedral.”
Rodriguez and I drifted past the mouth of the alley. I could see the edge of the parking lot and a second alley veering off at a diagonal to the first. Black Dumpsters lined both sides of the first alley. A small dark man had his back to us, and one of the bins open.
An engine coughed and turned over. A brown sedan pulled out of the lot just as the small dark man closed the cover on the bin and rolled it across the alley. The driver came to a stop and gave a tap on his horn. The man put his hands in the air and began to wrestle with the bin. A second, larger engine roared to life.
I couldn’t speak for the driver of the sedan, but it came together for me in that moment. The moment before it happened. A dump truck laid on its horn even as it roared down the second alley, bit into the side of the sedan, and snowplowed it into the building. There was a mad, shadowy scramble in the front seat as the sedan’s driver tried to open a door that was now pinned against a brick wall. The driver of the truck revved his engine, front wheels gaining purchase, climbing up the side of the sedan and crashing through its roof. Rodriguez ran down the alley. I stayed where I was as the driver of the truck rocked his front wheels back and forth, crushing the roof of the sedan flat. On cue, there was a flare of sirens behind me. Three police cruisers and a fire engine- a carefully selected group, no doubt-arrived on scene within thirty seconds of the crash itself. Rodriguez raised his arms, badge in one hand, gun in the other. A cop took him to one side. The rest swarmed over the wreckage.
I walked up to the sedan. A thin river of blood mixed with oil had leaked out from under the left front wheel. I could make out a patch of human hair and Rissman’s black glasses crushed and pinned awkwardly against the steering wheel. The rest of it was broken glass, twisted steel, and flesh.
The driver of the dump truck didn’t say much. And when he did, it was in Italian. The second man I’d seen in the alley was gone. I angled over to the side of the truck. The script on the door read SILVER LINE TRUCKING.
“Look familiar?” Rodriguez had walked up behind me.
“Vinny DeLuca.”
Rodriguez kicked at a stone in his way. “He always liked to do business with the city.”
“And wanted everyone to know it.”
A shout came from the back of the sedan. A fireman rose up and vomited against the wall. The rest of them scattered. The trunk of Rissman’s car was open. I got within ten feet and reached for a handkerchief. Then I looked in. Peter Gilmore looked back. Or what was left of him. Knees tucked in under his chin. Propped up against a spare tire. Waiting, apparently, for someone to bury him.
“Is that who I think it is?” Rodriguez said.
“Yep.” I walked back down the alley to the street. Rodriguez lingered for another minute, then joined me.
“You want one?” I offered him a cigarette.
“No, thanks.”
I lit up, hoping tobacco would wash away the death smell. Rodriguez and I walked down Wabash, then turned toward the cathedral.
“You know what will happen?” Rodriguez said.
“With what?”
The detective waved a hand vaguely behind us. “Our friends back there. The guy in the trunk will miraculously transport himself to the front seat of the car, where he will have expired from injuries suffered in the crash. The driver of the dump truck will get a citation for dangerous driving, appear in court in two months, and have his case dismissed. The whole thing will be a bit of tragic irony on page three of tomorrow’s Trib. Wilson will mourn the loss of his aide. Hell, Rissman might even rate his own mention at Holy Name. Either way, the whole thing will be forgotten in a week.”
“Loose ends,” I said.
“No one ties ’em up better than Chicago.”
We came to the corner of Superior and State.
“Where you headed?” I said.
Rodriguez shrugged. “Gotta date for lunch.”
“Rita?”
“Yeah.”
“She’s all right, Vince.”
“Yeah, yeah. What about you?”
I nodded toward the stone steps and the white building above it. “Got some loose ends of my own.”
“Say one for me.” Rodriguez began to walk away. Then he stopped and turned. “I almost forgot.”
“What?”
“Rachel?”
“What about her?”
“What’s going on?”
Inside the folds of my coat was a flat package. It contained a final concession from the feds: all the paperwork on Rachel’s connections to CDA and a letter promising to bury the matter forever. I’d considered giving it to her in person but decided the mailbox might be a better option.
“Kelly?”
“Yeah?”
“You want me to talk to her?”
“Be better if we leave it, Vince.”
“For now?”
“Yeah, for now.”
The detective patted me on the shoulder and started up Superior again. I sat on Holy Name’s steps and warmed myself in the sun.
A couple more cruisers flashed by. Along with an ambulance and a TV truck. I finished my smoke and ground the butt under my heel.
Inside, the cathedral felt cold and massive. I took a seat in the back. Then I got on my knees and closed my eyes. The darkness was absolute. I reached out with my hands, searching for a window to open, a ray of light to follow. But there was nothing. Just darkness. Suffocating and eternal. I sunk into it. And suffered. Knowing this was how it had to be. Until it wasn’t.
EPILOGUE
I sat in Ellen Brazile’s living room and listened to early evening traffic elbow its way past her windows.
“How’s your girl?” she said.
“I told you I don’t have one.”
“You told me it was complicated.”
I grimaced and took another sip of coffee. I’d already shared everything I knew about CDA, save for one item. She knew it. I knew it. The urn on the mantel holding her sister’s ashes probably knew it.
“I went down to see the mayor speak at one of his rallies,” she said.
“I bet that was thrilling.”
“I brought my gun.” She was curled up on the couch, dark hair pulled back from her face, long legs tucked too neatly beneath her.
“Where is it, Ellen?”
“I fully intended to shoot someone. Just couldn’t decide where to start.”
“Where’s the gun?”
“I got rid of it.” She turned her palms up so I could see.
“You should give me the gun.”
“You should tell me the rest of it.”
“You think you know, but you don’t.”
“Then go ahead.”
A horn beeped outside, followed by a muffled curse.
“It’s about your sister,” I said.
“Of course.”
“How she died. You weren’t responsible. For any of it.”
“Is that why you’re here?”
“I want you to know the truth.”
“A version of it.”
“They set you up. Just like everyone else.”
“I created Minor Roar.”
“And they released it. After tweaking it and putting in a kill switch.”
“I was the one who found the switch, Michael. Remember?”
“I remember. And that’s the whole point. You were the genius behind the curtain at CDA. Its prized asset. Molly and Stoddard both knew it and needed to keep you in the game. They also knew there was a good chance if you took a hard look at the pathogen’s DNA, you’d find the kill switch. And an even better chance you’d trace it back to the lab. So they decided to create a distraction.” I took out a DVD and slipped it into a laptop I’d set up on a table. “This is security footage from the Blue Line and O’Hare on the morning of the release. Anna doesn’t appear anywhere on the CTA cameras. That’s because she never took the train. We do, however, see her getting out of a cab at O’Hare around seven-thirty. We also see Peter Gilmore following her into the terminal. They targeted her, Ellen. Just like they targeted the gangs. And they killed her for one reason. To distract you. Manipulate you. Crush you. So when you looked at the pathogen-if you looked at the pathogen-you wouldn’t see what was there. You’d see what they suggested. It was the only way they could keep their genius in-house. And alive. Because if you’d gone to Molly or Stoddard and started asking questions about a kill switch, they would have killed you. And that’s the truth.”
Ellen stared at the image of her sister, striding across the United Terminal, a travel bag slung over her shoulder. Then she closed the lid on the laptop and ran her hands across the top of it.
“Can I ask you something?” she said.
“Sure.”
“Where has all this gotten you?”
“All what?”
“All this truth.”
“You’d rather believe in a lie?”
She nodded as if that was exactly what she’d expected. “I heard someone else’s truth tonight. Not mine. Not yet.”
“It doesn’t have to be that way.”
“I birthed it, Michael. I have to answer for it. And that is exactly how it has to be.”
She came over and sat down beside me. I felt my heart pump. She ran a knotted hand down the side of my face and smiled. It was a smile of sorrow. The smile of an old soul. Then she kissed me on the lips.
“Go home, Michael.”
And so I did.
Room 312 at the Raphael. The bed was empty, blanket turned back. A square of light from the street made the sheets glow. I sat in a chair by a window. Gideon’s Bible was lying open on the table. I read what was written there. It was signed by Paul McCartney.
There was a rustle behind me, a creak of weight against wood. I followed the sound, knowing I’d heard it before. Unable to place it. There was a closet. I didn’t remember seeing it earlier, but it must have been there. The door was ajar, the interior lit from within. I watched my hand grip the knob and pull the door open. Ellen Brazile swung in a small, mean circle. Her eyes were open. The rope underneath her jaw was cinched tight.
I sat up in my bed. It was cool in the apartment, but I was covered in a layer of sweat. My heart knocked against my ribs. I got up and shut the window. Then I went out to the living room and ate a bowl of cereal. Maggie drank the milk while I got dressed. I went downstairs, got in my car, and drove. I felt like I was in some sort of twenty-second-century play. Or maybe fifth century B.C. I knew my lines, would play my role. Because if I didn’t, someone else would. And it always wound up in the same place anyway.
Ellen’s building was drenched in darkness. I walked through her lobby, stood in the elevator, and watched the numbers as they went up. Her door was closed. I turned the knob and found it unlocked. I would have been surprised if it wasn’t.
My feet knew the way, through the living room, down a hallway, to her bedroom. The noise was there. A murmur in the pitch. Weight on wood. I switched on a light and looked at her closet door. Then I walked over, paused another moment, and pulled it open.
AUTHOR’S NOTE The biological weapon described in this novel is, by design, purely fictional. Could this exact weapon be created using today’s technology? According to most of the scientists I spoke with, the answer is no. Could something similar, and even scarier, be created in a lab somewhere? According to the same experts, undoubtedly yes. If you’re interested in hard information on the issue of black biology, check out The Gathering Biological Warfare Storm, a collection of essays put together under the aegis of the USAF Counterproliferation Center. It’s highly readable, fairly straightforward, and covers a wide range of issues. You should also check out Biohazard by Ken Alibeck and Stephen Handelman and The Hot Zone by Richard Preston. The Internet is, of course, awash with information on a host of related topics, including microbial forensics, bioinformatics, BioBricks, synthetic biology, and the science behind stealth viruses. If you Google “Fort Detrick Disease samples,” you can read about what’s been going on for the last twenty years at this country’s largest biological weapons research lab. There remains a lot of uncertainty about the exact nature and scope of the threat posed by black biology and biological weapons. Most experts, however, seem to agree on at least two things. First, an attack somewhere in the world seems not a matter of if but when (with the “when” generally believed to be sooner rather than later). Second, the United States could hardly be less prepared to handle such an attack. From surveillance and detection to prevention, investigation, and the maintenance of our health care system, the United States remains nearly defenseless against this growing threat. One need look no further than a bipartisan congressional panel, which in January 2010, gave Congress and the Obama administration each an “F” for their efforts in this area, concluding that there still exists “no national plan to coordinate federal, state, and local efforts following a bioterror attack, and the United States lacks the technical and operational capabilities required for an adequate response.”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS A portion of the proceeds
from this book is being donated to the Cambodian Children’s Fund. If you’re interested in learning more about this wonderful organization, check out its Web site at www.cambodianchildrensfund.org. I’d like to thank all the people at Knopf and Vintage/Black Lizard for their enthusiasm and support. I’d especially like to thank my editor, Jordan Pavlin. This was a big book to write and would have been impossible without her editorial instincts and deft touch. Thanks to David Gernert. He wears the hats of agent, editor, and friend-and wears them all exceedingly well. Thanks to Garnett Kilberg Cohen, a brilliant Chicago writer and professor at Columbia College, who was kind enough to give my manuscript a first read. As usual, she was able to zero in on what was working and what wasn’t. Thanks to my family and friends for all their support and encouragement. Thanks, also, to everyone who has read my first three books. Hope you like this one. Finally, I’d like to remember a wonderful friend, Danny Mendez. He loved books, and loved reading about the exploits of Michael Kelly in particular. We all miss you. That’s it. Love you, Mary Frances.
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We All Fall Down mk-4 Page 23
