“Maybe the bug is just running out of victims?” I said.
“Too early for that. I also would have expected to see some leakage out of O’Hare as well.”
“Nothing?”
She shook her head. “Not that I’ve seen. It’s like the thing has just dried up and blown away.”
“Have you talked to your boss about the drop?”
“Stoddard? No.”
“Why not?”
“I haven’t talked to anyone. Except you. And I’m not sure why I did that.”
The man with the limp flipped his phone shut, finished his drink, and stood. I studied the line of his coat but couldn’t discern the shape of a weapon. He threw a few dollars on the bar and left. Deke ignored the money and turned his eyes my way. I shrugged. Deke scraped the cash off the bar and stuffed it in his pocket.
“What do you keep staring at, Michael?”
I shook my head. “Nothing. I’m still not sure what I can do for you.”
“I want someone to know what I’ve done. I know you won’t understand any of it, but there are some disks in my bag. They summarize my research. If you get them into the right hands… ”
“Where are you going?”
“Right now?”
“Yes, right now.”
“A friend is collecting Anna’s ashes in the morning. I was hoping to say good-bye.”
I’d forgotten about her sister. And now she was here. Suddenly in our conversation. And the pathogen’s faceless, nameless dead were again anything but.
“I’m sorry about Anna,” I said.
“Thank you.” Her fingers picked at the edge of a napkin, and her face began to break into small, pale pieces. I moved my hand across the table until it brushed hers.
“It wasn’t your fault, Ellen.”
“I killed her.”
“No, you didn’t.”
She didn’t fight me. Just wiped the damp from her eyes and folded the napkin into a small, obsessive square.
“I ever tell you about my older brother?” I said.
“I don’t know anything about you.”
“His name was Philip. He hung himself with a bedsheet when he was eighteen.”
She stopped fidgeting with the napkin. “I’m sorry.”
“Me, too.”
Her voice lifted a touch. “Do you think about him?”
“Lately I have, yeah.”
“Why is that?”
It was a good question. One I didn’t have a good answer for. Philip had always been there. A memory bottled up and staring at me out of a clear glass jar. Tucked away on a shelf with all the others. Now, however, someone had cracked the seal. And my brother wandered loose through my dreams. Waking and otherwise.
“How old were you when he died?” she said.
“Seventeen. Philip was in jail. Something stupid. I never called. Never wrote. Never talked to him, except for the one time.”
“Seventeen years old?”
“About.”
“Did you know how to call?”
“I knew how to use a phone.”
“That’s not the same as calling in to a prison.”
“I knew how to mail a letter.”
“So you feel responsible for his death?”
“I feel like I never said good-bye.”
Ellen reached for her empty glass, and it seemed we couldn’t have been in a better place than the bar we were in. With all the people we couldn’t see. Drinking and smoking. No one speaking. Everyone watching one another’s ghosts in the murk.
“You think you know who’s behind all of this?” she said.
“I have some ideas.”
“For a while you thought it might be me.”
I shook my head.
“What changed your mind?”
“Your pain.”
She wanted to laugh but couldn’t seem to muster the energy. Instead, she slipped a flat package onto the table between us. “For you.”
I looked at the parcel. Wrapped in brown paper with black string. “What is it?”
“Read the note inside. Then do what you want.”
I began to pick at the wrappings.
“Later, Michael. After I’ve gone.”
“Where are you headed?”
“Eventually? Back to my microscopes.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. Maybe find some answers of my own.”
“It wasn’t your fault.”
She gave me a hard, ugly snicker. A shiver ran between us.
“This won’t end well, will it?” I said.
“What do you think?” She pushed her glass forward an inch. “Maybe we should have another drink.”
“You gonna tell me what you’re scared of?”
“Not yet.”
“Okay, then. Let’s have another.”
CHAPTER 52
We stayed for another hour at Little Kings. When we left I looked for the man with the limp, but couldn’t find him. Even better, he didn’t find us. We headed north to Old Town. The bars, like the streets, were mostly empty. Any stores still open had been picked clean: food, bottled water, rubber gloves, disinfectant, and, of course, medical masks. A middle-aged man in a Lexus had gone into the Walgreens at North and Wells and tried to buy their entire inventory of cotton breathers. Another customer shot him dead in the parking lot and took his stash.
We celebrated all the fun by drinking past midnight. Ellen was quiet toward the end and held my arm as we walked down Wells. A single cab drifted up. A window rolled down. The cabbie wore a pink mask over his nose and mouth. I could tell by the busy eyes he wanted us to get in. So we did. I had him drop us at a boutique hotel called the Raphael, just off Michigan Avenue. We got a room, number 312, and went upstairs. She kissed me just inside the door. I told her to wait. Told her to lie down and close her eyes for a moment. I watched her breathing slow. Sleep crawled across her face.
I picked up the bottle we’d bought and sat by the window. Smoke from my cigarette coiled in electric light from the street. Below, a lonely figure ducked into a doorway and let the wind tumble past. I took a drink and closed my eyes. I thought about the infection crawling through my city’s bloodstream. The body itself was jaundiced, skin swollen, limbs black with rot. Knives needed to be sharpened. Sacrifices made. But only if the patient was willing to pay the price.
I opened my eyes just in time to see my friend leave his doorway. He was wearing an overcoat and dragged
