“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
