Sleep Tight

by Jeffrey Jacobson

  Ed opened the side door of the mission and waited for Qween and Sam to go inside.

  Qween waited in the hallway for Sam, then followed him deeper though the next set of doors. Ed followed. Sam knew the assholes out front would be calling the office inside, and knew that he had only a minute. He moved fast, and Qween kept up. He had to give her credit; when she had to, the old girl moved fast and quiet. He avoided the chapel straight ahead and turned left in the next hallway, away from the music and candles. He guessed that the cafeteria tables and cots were to the right. He wanted the administration offices.

  Sam didn’t bother to knock. He twisted the door handle and slammed his shoulder into the door, hoping it was unlocked. It was. He burst into the room, one hand holding up his star, one hand on his holster. “Evening, brothers.”

  He was in luck. This was the main office. Four men. Two were busy trying to sweep cash off a desk. One of them had a desk phone wedged between his ear and shoulder. Sam ignored them and concentrated on the two guys sitting on either side of the door. They were halfway up, reaching inside their suits.

  Ed was immediately behind him, and he wasn’t fucking around. He already had his .357 out. “You sit right the fuck down.” The two big guys eyeballed each other and decided their cut wasn’t worth taking on some pissed-off cop with a giant handgun. They sat.

  While Sam angled toward the two guys trying to hide all the cash, Ed focused on the muscle. “That’s right, fuckheads. Sit still. Don’t give me an excuse, you got me?”

  “Easy, easy,” Sam told the accountants. “This isn’t a raid. I couldn’t give a rat’s ass what y’all are up to in here. We’re only here for some information. So take a deep breath. Leave that cash alone. It’s not going anywhere.”

  Ed told the muscle, “I got an itch to put some holes in your heads, so do yourselves a favor and listen carefully. I don’t give a fuck who is supposedly protecting you. He here now?” He showed them his handgun. “I am. Ain’t no secret you packing. So here’s what we’re gonna do. You’re gonna take those guns out, nice and slow, and put ’em on the floor. One at a time. You do it the right way and I don’t paint the wall with your brains.”

  “Amen, brother,” Sam said.

  The two men didn’t want to die. One at a time, they took out their handguns, holding them gingerly by the handles, and left them on the floor. Ed kicked them over to Sam. “Now then, since I don’t feel like searching you, y’all are gonna lie down with your hands behind your head. We’ll be out of your hair soon.

  Sam said, “All we need is to talk to you about the spacemen.” He was having a ball being the good cop for a change.

  One of the muscleheads said in a muffled voice, “We didn’t do nothing.”

  Ed said, “Shut the fuck up, ’less you got something constructive to say.”

  “All I’m sayin’ is that we didn’t do nothin’.”

  “Last warning,” Ed said.

  “Hey, man, what’s your problem?” The musclehead was getting indignant. “You need to talk to your supervisor. This here, we’re protected, you understand what I’m saying?”

  Ed nodded. “I understand you didn’t listen.” He gave the guy a swift kick in the stomach. The air rushed out of the guy’s lungs in a stunned hushing sound, and he made a strangled whining noise as struggled to take another breath. “Dumbass,” Ed said. “Who’s fucking next?”

  Sam said, “Maybe violence isn’t the answer here.” He turned his attention back to the two men by the desks. “You seem like reasonable men. Care to enlighten my partner and me? Tell us about the spacemen and we’re gone.”

  The two men wouldn’t look up. They didn’t say anything.

  Sam said, “No? Okay then.” He went around the desks, opened a few drawers at random until he found what he was looking for. A simple BIC lighter. He flicked it once, made sure it worked. He grabbed a stack of hundred-dollar bills off the desk, folded one over, and lit it on fire.

  “You can’t do that,” one of the men said.

  “I’m not doing anything,” Sam said, holding on to the burning bill until the flames were licking his thumb and forefinger. He dropped it and ground the ashes into the expensive carpet. Sam lit two more bills. “File a complaint. Take me to court. Go ahead, prove this money ever existed.” He lit the entire stack, burning at least four or five thousand dollars. “You can explain to your boss why you’re a little short today.” He grabbed another fistful of cash.

  “Fine, fine, okay? Just stop,” one of the accountants said, patting the air in front of him like he was trying to get a bus to slow down. “It’s got nothing to do with us.”

  Sam flicked his gaze to the groaning man on the floor. “That’s what he said too.”

  “I just mean, all we do is call ’em if we got somebody in here that fits the description.”

  “And what would that description be?”

  “Somebody looking like they going cold turkey. Shaking. Itching. Sleeping and won’t wake up. Shit like that.”

  “Then what?”

  “Sometimes they come here. The spacemen. Guys in rubber suits and masks. They take ’em away.”

  “Sometimes.”

  “Sometimes we take ’em ourselves. Sometimes they call us. When they want somebody.”

  “Somebody.”

  “Yeah, somebody. Those times, it don’t matter. They just want somebody.”

  “Somebody that nobody’ll miss,” Ed chimed in.

  The guy shrugged. “I guess so, yeah. We don’t ask questions.”

  Before Ed could lose his temper again, Sam asked, “Where do you take ’em?” He was willing to bet all the money on the desk that the guy was going to say, “Cook County General.”

  But the guy said, “Loading dock on Lower Wacker. Between Monroe and Adams.”

  Sam popped more nicotine gum. Chewed slowly. It made sense. If they were dropping people off, whoever was in charge of the hospital wouldn’t want anyone to see it. It seemed very likely that there was another way inside, not just the emergency entrance. Lower Wacker had loading docks that opened to Cook County General.

  They heard a scream.

  “Where’s Qween?” Ed asked.

  CHAPTER 44

  8:46 PM

  August 13

  Phil didn’t call for a long time. Kimmy had put Grace to bed earlier, and had retreated to the bathroom to sulk in a bath she kept refilling with hot water, over and over, when it grew too cool.

  Lee didn’t give a damn. She could drown in there as far as he was concerned. He’d dug a bottle of cheap gin out of the back of his kitchen pantry somebody had left during his housewarming party and sat in front of the windows, staring at the Chicago skyline. The only light came from the television, but the sound was muted, so all Lee could hear was the hum of the air-conditioning and the occasional dull rush of hot water in the bathtub.

  His uncle’s voice was cold. “I told you this was going to come back and bite you in the ass.”

  Lee was drunk, but knew he’d better at least act like he was sorry. Arguing would just make things worse. And drunk or not, he needed his uncle’s help. “My apologies,” he mumbled.

  His uncle sighed. “I’ve been up for the past three fucking days, trying to fix your mistakes. I’m tired and I’m pissed. You’re lucky you’re my nephew, or I’d have some fellas I know come over and teach you a fucking lesson. Give you a chance to try wiping your ass with a fucking hook.”

  Lee stayed quiet, giving his Phil a chance to vent.

  “As it is, there’s no goddamn point. The big boys are scared. They’re looking for a scapegoat. They’re kicking around a few names, but I gotta tell you, yours is at the top of the list.”

  Lee shot to his feet. “So why’d you call then? Just to rip me a new asshole? Huh? What, make yourself feel better?”

  “I called because I feel responsible, and to let you know that by this time tomorrow night, it’ll be all over. All your friends are distancing themselves from you. Me include
d. Got no choice. You’re goddamn toxic and nobody, but nobody, is going to want to be associated with you. I called to give you the name of a good lawyer. Forget about using the usual firm. No fucking way they’re going near this shit.”

  “You can take your lawyer and shove him up your ass. I’m gonna ride this out and fucking bury you.” Lee hung up. For several long seconds, he glared at his reflection in the windows. The rage built, vibrating up through his feet, his legs, his guts. He ground his teeth together. Luckily, the bathroom was silent. So instead of kicking the door down and dragging Kimmy out by her hair, he whipped his phone at the TV. It bounced off with a small popping noise, leaving a spiderweb of cracks the size of a coaster.

  When Ed and Sam had gone into the office, Qween slipped back past the church and into the dormitory, her sneakers silent on the plush carpeting. The mission was a fixture in the neighborhood; it had been around for years. Everybody knew about the homeless men carrying drug money. Few, though, knew about the homeless women and sometimes young men who were enticed with promises of a hot meal, a warm place to sleep, and of course, eternal salvation and taken downstairs, given their own rooms, and told to wait patiently for a select group of clientele, who, as it turned out, liked to inflict a little damage with their love.

  She found the door she wanted in the back of the mission and quietly unzipped her bag. She gently squeezed the door handle and twisted. The door opened on a small office.

  An older man was asleep at the desk. He was wearing a suit, but it was about ten years out of fashion, faded and tight on his soft, bulging frame. She set the bag on the floor and shut the door, not bothering to be quiet anymore.

  The man opened his eyes and blinked as she shot the dead bolt home.

  Qween said, “Told you I’d be back.”

  The man nodded. “I remember you. I remember Jesus wouldn’t forgive your sins, no matter how hard we tried to save you.”

  “You gonna wish Jesus was here to save you, motherfucker.”

  He stood. Came around the desk. “I told you that if you set foot in this building again with that foul mouth I would—”

  He’d gotten as far as the front of the desk when Qween pulled the bowling ball from her bag and dropped it on his foot. It landed with a jarring crunch and rolled away. He gasped, and bent over to clutch at his ankle, as if the foot hurt too much to touch. He stammered, “I’ma make sure—”

  Qween wasn’t paying attention. She retrieved her ball and lobbed it at him with an underhanded toss, using both hands. It soared up about six feet. She stopped to catch her breath, and eyed the room. It hadn’t changed much in eight years.

  The ball landed with a whispered crunch on the base of his spine and the man flopped forward. This time, he couldn’t suppress a short scream. One hand shot to the small of his back and the other splayed out for support or mercy, Qween wasn’t sure which. She didn’t care either way.

  Eight years. Long time to carry that much weight. She was more than ready to unload it on the bastard who had raped her. She noted the same dark cheap wood imitation walls. The same puke-green carpet. The same set of Bibles. The same set of encyclopedias from 1974. Eight years ago the bastard had put a knife on the desk and said that if she gave him any problems, he would take this blade and shove it up her asshole. Then he would watch her try to get help as she slowly bled to death.

  He’d smiled. Said either his dick or his knife was going in her ass and it was all up to her.

  She picked up the bowling ball yet again and dropped it on his hand. Another scream. This one was long and heartfelt. She dropped the ball again on his broken foot, grinding fractured bones together.

  There was a knock on the door. “Qween?” Sam’s voice. “You good?” He tried the handle, but the dead bolt held the door.

  The man rolled over, trying to find his breath to shout for help. Qween dropped the ball on the guy’s crotch. Sour vomit spilled from between his teeth.

  Qween called back to the door. “Not yet. But I’m getting there.” She picked up the ball again. It was growing heavier.

  “You got thirty seconds to finish your business,” Sam said.

  “We’re leaving.”

  Qween struggled to lift the ball higher. The guy was moaning at the floor, good hand held up as if to deflect the bowling ball, wherever it might land. Qween’s breath whistled between the wide gaps in her teeth as she planted her feet, squared her hips, and slowly, slowly hefted the ball above her head.

  “Oh God, oh God, don’t, I have—”

  She raised the bowling ball almost a full foot over her head and dropped it on his face.

  CHAPTER 45

  9:23 PM

  August 13

  They left Tommy alone in front of the TVs for a while to think about what was coming. For a while, he’d fought to maintain perspective, trying to convince himself that people weren’t kept in hospitals against their will, that as soon as these doctors realized that he wasn’t sick, they would discharge him. He would be allowed to leave. He would see Grace again. Soon.

  That had been the old Tommy. The Tommy who had faith. In God. In America. In the government. In people.

  The hospital had burned most of this faith right out of him.

  Now he fought against the despair that threatened to sweep him away, that sapped his strength, stole his will to live. The throbbing in his head never left. When he did speak, his voice was wavering and weak. He lived on nothing but protein shakes he drank through a straw. His muscles felt slack and useless; he guessed he might have lost at least ten pounds. Maybe fifteen. If things didn’t change, he was going to die, virus or not.

  Tommy forced himself to slow down and concentrate. He let his eyes glaze over, so the disturbing images on the TVs sank into a blurry haze, and he focused on the face of his daughter in his mind. He could see her smiling. Hear her laugh when they threw the rubber chickens at the Son of Svengoolie. Feel her arms around his neck.

  Same as before, two technicians and Sergeant Reaves came in to take him back upstairs. Tommy couldn’t tell if it was the same two techs or not, but these looked like they’d been on duty twenty-four hours at least. Their eyes were sunken and dull. They moved like robots in need of oil. No weapons.

  He wondered how much the life of a tech was worth to Dr. Reischtal. At first, Tommy would have assumed he could take a hostage to escape. He’d been planning on twisting his head when one of them grabbed the handles of the wheelchair and biting down on the tech’s hand, threatening to rip the biohazard suit wide open if they didn’t wheel him right out the front door.

  Sergeant Reaves, as always, was the problem. He hung back, hands clasped loosely in front of him, eyes missing nothing. Tommy had no doubt he could have his handgun out and squeezing the trigger in less time than it took for Tommy to sneeze. Hell, he’d empty the clip into both Tommy and the tech before anybody could say, “God bless you.” And while Tommy was the most desperate he’d ever been in his life, he wasn’t suicidal.

  They wheeled him out of the conference room. Tommy sank back in his straps on the wheelchair as they rolled him back to the elevator.

  Back in the car, Ed asked Qween, “Did you take us back there for the reasons we talked about or for some kinda half-assed payback?”

  “Didn’t sound half-assed to me,” Sam said.

  Qween watched the lights slide past the windows. “Little of both, Ed Jones.” She didn’t say anything else, and seemed oddly contemplative. Whatever had happened back at the mission had calmed her. She sounded at peace with herself and the universe.

  Ed didn’t like it. “We asked you for help, not for an excuse to seek revenge. We got bigger problems here than you.”

  Sam nodded. “I know. But listen, we got what we needed. If that was the price, than so be it.”

  “I just don’t like to be used,” Ed grumbled. “If it was necessary, I would’ve been happy to go back there when all this other shit was finished.”

  “No point in worrying about it no
w,” Sam said. “Like you said, we got other problems. Let’s go take a closer look at that address.”

  Qween laid back on the seat and unfurled her cloak. With the windows rolled up to hold the air-conditioning in against the summer heat, it soon became clear that it had been a while since she had bathed. She pulled up her knees and crossed one leg over the other, her left foot braced against the back passenger window. She let out an “Oh, yeah . . .” that Koko Taylor would be proud of.

  “Jesus fucking Christ,” Ed said, trying to breathe through his mouth. Sam rolled down his window and stuck his head out, taking deep breaths of the sweltering heat.

  Qween laughed. “You two need to get over your own damn selves.”

  There was no chance to try anything.

  They wheeled Tommy out of the elevator and into Don’s room without any preamble, just banged him into a door and there was Don. He had been lying so still before they came in that Tommy had thought he might be dead, but the sudden movement startled the large man, and he flinched against his restraints. His eyes, blood red and swollen, slid wildly around his sunken sockets, lighting briefly on Tommy.

  There was no sign of recognition.

  The techs left before Tommy’s wheelchair had stopped moving. Nobody wanted to be in there any longer than necessary. The shock of seeing Don, up close and personal, made Tommy forget about his escape plans for the moment. He stared at his partner.

  The skin around Don’s stomach had pulled back, revealing a distended organ, while the flesh around his face had simply wilted and hung off his skull like fake eyelashes on a decomposing corpse. Dark saliva collected at the corners of his mouth. He struggled against the straps, but the movements were feeble. Large black bruises had formed along limbs, concentrating in his joints, as if slow-motion car crashes were happening under the skin.