“You think we got it bad?” Harry said. “At least we don’t have to work here.”
“Go left. We’re looking for the aeration tanks.”
“Those round ones?” McGlade pointed to a group of eight settling tanks on our left, each the size of a large swimming pool.
“No. Ahead of us. That big one.”
It looked like a small, filthy lake, except it was a perfect rectangle, and the stuff floating on the surface wasn’t algae.
“What should we do?” Harry asked. “Jump out and let the truck coast in?”
“That’s probably the best way.”
“Should I slow down?”
I noted we were going about twenty miles an hour.
“Why bother? If we hurt ourselves, we won’t feel it for long.”
McGlade aimed the truck for the water, and we both opened our doors.
“If there’s an afterlife,” he said, “you owe me some sex.”
I looked down at how fast the ground was moving, reminded myself that fear didn’t matter at this point, and jumped from the cab at the same time as Harry.
CHAPTER 42
90 SECONDS
I HIT THE PAVEMENT like a paratrooper, ankles tight together and knees bent. It did nothing to cushion my fall. I skidded across the pavement like a skipping stone and then turned a cartwheel or two onto the grass. When the world stopped spinning, I knew I’d done something bad to my right ankle, and I had a scrape across my left palm that looked like I’d taken a belt sander to it.
I sat up, my head screaming at me. It took me a few seconds to find the goose egg, near my crown, leaking blood. I’d lost my Cubs cap.
Gagging screams to my left. McGlade, pulling himself up out of the aeration tank. He looked like a mud monster, rising from the swamp. He lumbered toward me, spitting out brown water, and as he got closer I noted he had several multicolored things stuck to his body.
“You’ve got a . . . condom on your shoulder.”
He looked at it, and flicked it off with his claw.
“Yuck. And what the hell is this plastic thing?”
“It’s an applicator.”
“Do I want to know what it applies?”
“Probably not.”
The truck had almost completely sunk. Bubbles were still coming up from the cab, and the impact waves had disturbed the entire pool, sloshing filthy water up onto the land. Mission accomplished. But I was having a hard time feeling any sense of accomplishment. Even dampened by the water and the concrete, the blast would destroy this entire plant. We were as good as dead.
McGlade rubbed some muck off his face and gave me a lecherous grin.
“So . . . about that sex you owe me.”
I checked my watch. “We’ve only got fifty seconds left.”
“I only need thirty.”
“Sorry, Harry. Not even if you weren’t covered with human waste.”
He pouted.
“Come on, Jackie. I’ve always known you had a little thing for me.”
I started to laugh. “You’re the one with the little thing.”
McGlade started to laugh too. And then we were hugging each other, laughing like fools, and I noticed he was angling me toward the truck, like a shield, which made me laugh even harder.
“You’re such an asshole, McGlade.”
“You love me. Admit it.”
“I admit nothing. I—”
A sound, to the south. Mechanical. Rumbling. Growing louder.
“A helicopter.” McGlade shielded his eyes from the sun and peered into the distance. “Son of a bitch.”
“I’ll second that.”
As it came into focus, I saw it was a Chicago police chopper, coming at us fast. Real fast. I looked at my watch. We had fifteen seconds left.
“WE DON’T HAVE TIME TO LAND!” the megaphone boomed, and I’d recognize that voice anywhere.
Herb.
“GRAB THE LADDER! WE CAN ONLY MAKE ONE PASS!”
Harry and I watched as a rescue ladder unfurled below the landing skids. The bird swooped in low, the bottom of the ladder sparking against the pavement. It was coming so quick, it would knock out our teeth, or yank our shoulders from our sockets. I decided I could live with either.
At nine seconds until detonation, the ladder hit us with the force of a car wreck. I’d been aiming to get my arm in between the rungs, and I did it, getting a smack in the chest that knocked the wind out of me and probably broke a few ribs. I was jerked off my feet, and so was Harry. The helicopter began a rapid ascent, but it was too fast, too much G force, too much wind resistance, and I just couldn’t hold on.
My grip failed, and as I began to fall I wondered what would kill me first, the ground or the explosion.
CHAPTER 43
4 SECONDS
I DIDN’T FALL.
McGlade—stupid, offensive, obnoxious McGlade—wrapped his legs around my waist in a fireman rescue, and I squinted through the rushing air and saw his mechanical hand locked tight onto a ladder rung.
We climbed even faster, the treatment plant getting smaller and smaller until the cloud cover made it disappear. I held on to Harry’s waist, and looped an elbow around the ladder.
And then the world exploded.
It wasn’t a bang. More like a whoomp. Beneath the clouds came a searing flash of light, and then a wall of hot air and detritus, which rocked the whirly-bird like a toy boat in a hurricane. We tilted to the side until the ladder was actually higher than the propeller, back the other way, and into a spiral that once again broke my grip, but not Harry’s. I squeezed my eyes shut, unsure which way was which, only that I was alive for a little while longer and damn grateful for it.
Then the storm passed. The chopper regained control and began a steady descent that took a tremendous amount of strain off of my muscles and joints, making hanging on almost child’s play. We crept down past the clouds, and I looked toward the treatment plant and saw a giant column of smoke where it used to be. But the houses to the west, and the businesses to the south, seemed intact. It was strangely quiet, and I realized the explosion had knocked out my hearing, which for some reason was more peaceful to me than frightening.
We landed on the country club green, though it wasn’t actually green anymore. Sludge and waste and debris was spewed across the golf course, making it look like a dump. It was still coming down from the sky too, a foul black drizzle mixed with smoke and tiny bits of dirt.
When my feet touched land I cried out in pain from five different places at once, but I was in better shape than McGlade. His prosthesis was soaked in blood, which had leaked from where it was attached to his stump, and his shoulder was noticeably dislocated. Eyes closed. No movement at all. But his legs remained locked around my waist.
“Harry!” I yelled, barely able to hear my own voice.
A dozen things flashed through my mind. Had he been hit by some shrapnel? One of the nails from the bomb? Some sort of internal injury? A fast-acting disease from the raw sewage he’d flopped around in?
I gave McGlade a shake, and one eye peeked open.
“Is it over?” he asked.
I nodded.
“Did we live?”
I nodded again.
He smiled. “For a moment there I thought we were in trouble.”
I smiled back. “Nice work, Sundance.”
“You so owe me some sex.”
I disentangled myself from Harry and managed to stand up, albeit painfully. A few yards away, the helicopter powered off and a beaten-up Herb hopped out. He hobbled over to us, his face awash with concern.
“Jack! Are you okay?”
He came to me, approaching slowly, and I threw my arms around his shoulders and hugged him.
“Thanks, Herb.”
I felt his strong arms patting my back. “Somebody’s gotta save your ass.”
After the male-bonding, I pulled away and sized him up. Herb didn’t look much better than I did—skinned knees, bleeding head, torn shirt.
“What happened?” I asked.
“A little car trouble. Nothing serious. I was lucky my phone didn’t break; I wouldn’t have been able to call for the chopper.”
I heard a very faint sound. It was music, some heavy metal song from the eighties.
“Speaking of.” Herb pointed. “Your pocket.”
I stuck my hand in and pulled out Harry’s phone, surprised it had survived. I’d have to pick up one of these things.
“Daniels,” I answered.
“Lieutenant? Is that you? It’s Hajek, at the crime lab. Are you the one that sent me the fingerprint from this phone?”
“Yeah. What have you got?”
“I got a trace. It belongs to a postal worker named Carey Schimmel.”
I knew that name.
“He was the guy who delivered the extortion letter to the superintendent’s office, the one covered in BT.”
And it suddenly made sense why the Chemist was so paranoid about leaving prints. Postal workers are government employees, and they get fingerprinted when they’re hired. Schimmel’s prints were on file. I remembered his brief statement, and then wanted to kick myself.
“He said he wore gloves. But there were no other prints on that letter, other than from people at police headquarters. Dammit, how did we miss that?”
Hajek groaned. “It was staring us right in the face. A dozen people in the post office would have touched that letter, left some prints. But none of them did, because Schimmel was the only one who handled it. Did we even check to see if headquarters was on his route?”
“No,” I said, feeling like an ass. “Does he have a record?”
“No, he’s clean. But I’ve got his current address. He lives in Forest Glen.”
That was a Chicago neighborhood on the north side, only a few miles away.
“Call the super. Get a warrant. We’ll be there in two minutes.”
“Hold on, I’m sending you a JPEG of his driver’s license picture.”
I shared the information with Herb, and the chopper pilot, a woman called Leaky. She radioed base to get coordinates. Next, I approached Harry, who appeared to have successfully snapped his shoulder back into place, but not without consequences. He was moaning, and tears had left some clean trails in the filth on his cheeks.
“Got any morphine on you, Jackie? Or crack?”
“You’ll get some help soon, Harry.”
“Going to drop me off at the hospital?”
“No. You’re staying here.”
“No I’m not.”
“We’ll send an ambulance for you.”
“I’d like that, but I have to come with.” He pointed to his mechanical hand, still locked on to the ladder rung. “It won’t come off.”
Against Herb’s protestations, we helped McGlade into the bird.
“No grab-ass,” Harry warned him.
“I’ll try to restrain myself.”
“No reach-around either, Sir Eats-A-Lot.”
“I did save your life. How about a thank-you?”
“Be honest. The reason you came charging in here so fast is because you thought I had a cruller in my pocket.”
“God, you’re an asshole.”
Once we were airborne, I played with Harry’s phone and managed to access the Internet. After sifting through an extraordinary number of e-mails that involved porn, much of it the chunky booty variety, I found the picture from Hajek. Carey Schimmel was an average-looking white male, thirty-five years old, dark blond hair, and brown eyes. I remembered those eyes. They were the same eyes I saw in Records.
I Googled “Carey Schimmel” and got a hit that referenced a lawsuit from five years ago. An old newspaper article:
SLAIN WOMAN’S BOYFRIEND LASHES OUT
Merle and Felicity Hotham of Cicero settled out of court today in a wrongful death suit brought against the city of Chicago. The Hothams claimed the police department’s late response to a 911 call resulted in their daughter’s death.
Tracey Hotham, 29, died last August at the hands of convicted murderer Martin Welch, during an attack that lasted over fifty minutes. Hotham reportedly dialed the 911 Emergency number just as Welch entered the Chicago apartment she shared with her fiancé, Carey Schimmel. She was beaten, raped, and strangled in a 53-minute ordeal that ended just before the police arrived.
Sources say the settlement, an undisclosed sum, was well below the two million dollars in damages originally sought. Schimmel was reportedly outraged at the announcement, calling the parents “cowards,” and was removed from the courtroom when he began to chant “the system doesn’t work.”
Welch, sentenced to life for the attack, is currently serving time in Joliet State Prison.
I shared this with Herb.
“I’d be pissed too,” he said. “But not enough to poison half the city and try to blow up forty thousand people.”
We set down a block away from Schimmel’s house, in an empty public baseball field. I checked my ankle holster, which still held the AMT. Leaky unlocked the helicopter’s anti-riot arsenal, and offered Herb a 40mm multi-launcher with ten nonlethal beanbag rounds. The large silver canisters were packed with gunpowder, but instead of a lead bullet or buckshot, the projectile was essentially a small, woven Hacky Sack. It hit with enough velocity to knock down a three-hundred-pound linebacker.
“You sure you’re ready for this?” Herb asked. “You look pretty banged up.”
“I’ll manage. How about you? This is a long way from Robbery.”
“I wouldn’t miss this for the world.” Herb dropped the final cartridge into the weapon’s cylinder and snapped the breach closed. “You think he’s still in town?”
I thought about the Chemist, hating the police so much that he spent years planning this elaborate revenge scheme.
“I’m sure of it. He needed to hear the boom.”
“How about the warrant?”
“Probable cause. We believe that retired CPD officer Jason Alger is being held inside Schimmel’s residence against his will.”
“That works for me.” Herb grinned. “Partner.”
He helped me out of the chopper, and we went to go pay the Chemist a visit—one he wasn’t expecting, and definitely wouldn’t enjoy.
CHAPTER 44
THE EXPLOSION IS SPECTACULAR. Standing in his backyard, Carey Schimmel actually feels the ground shake beneath him, and he’s seven miles away. The Chemist has been dreaming about this day, this moment, for so long, and it has finally arrived.
After six years, three months, and fifteen days, he’s finally fulfilled.
He watches the smoke cloud drift upward for several minutes, then goes back into the house and turns on the television to see the devastation up close.
The first reports are sketchy, but he expected that.
“Something has exploded in the village of Skokie. We’ll have more information as reports come in.”
There is much speculation. A gas line? Terrorists? The first cameras on the scene show smoke and wreckage. He microwaves some popcorn and waits expectantly for the video of the slaughter to be broadcast.
CNN has a special report. So does Fox. Channel 5 and channel 9 interrupt the regularly scheduled programming with breaking news. But no one knows anything. He wonders if he should call, help them out. Maybe he’ll do that tomorrow, from the cabana he’s renting in Mexico. Reveal everything about the Chemist, and what Chicago has covered up.
“I got them, Tracey,” he says. “I got them good.”
This is how revenge tastes, and it is delicious.
“Just in, the source of the explosion has been pinpointed to the Northside Water Reclamation Plant, on 3500 West Howard Street. So far, there have been no reported casualties.”
The smile freezes on Schimmel’s face. What is this, a cover-up? A government conspiracy?
He watches it, live. There’s the plant, blown up. The debris, scattered all over the street. Is this some kind of old footage, used to spin the truth?
<
br /> No. These are definitely pictures of Skokie, and it’s happening right now. But how could they have figured it out? How could they have—
There’s a banging on the front door. “Carey Schimmel, this is the Chicago police!”
Schimmel doesn’t think, he acts. He assumes they’re also covering the back door, so he enters the kitchen, climbs onto the sink, opens the window, and crawls out face-first. The money is still in the house, but he isn’t considering the money. Escape is not an option. He means to kill as many cops as he can before they take him down.
He rolls onto the lawn and runs to the greenhouse. To get his jet injector. To make his last stand.
CHAPTER 45
“FREEZE!”
Schimmel didn’t freeze, and I didn’t fire; he was ten yards away and moving fast, and with the short-barreled AMT I’d just be wasting bullets. The quick glimpse I caught didn’t reveal if he had any weapons or not.
“Herb! Around back!”
I limped in pursuit. My ankle was swollen from the truck leap, but the pain was minimal compared to my resolve. I wasn’t going to let this guy get away.
He stopped in front of the greenhouse—a large glass structure that took up much of his backyard—and fussed with the door. I closed to within twenty feet and yelled, “Hands in the air!” He didn’t comply, and I fired twice, but he was moving fast and crouching down, and I missed both shots. He was inside his garden of death before I could adjust my aim.
Herb met me at the greenhouse entrance, told me to stand back, and pumped two beanbag rounds through the locked door, shattering the glass. I went in first, my weapon in a two-handed grip, and was enveloped by moist heat.
Dirty Martini Page 22