Sleep Tight

“Shit. I want you right there. I want you with a hundred needles in your eyes. I want you in pain, day and night. I want you to regret the day you ever went to work for me. I want you to die a slow, painful death. How’s that sound?”

Tommy didn’t answer.

“I want . . . I want you to understand how bad you fucked up. I want you to know that when I’m done with this fine piece of ass, your ex-wife, I want you to know that I’m putting her on the street. See how badly she wants to make rent for her and that bitch daughter of yours. I want you to know that soon, very soon, I’m go

Lee paused, enjoying himself. “I want you to know that you do not fuck with me. I want you to be an example. I want people in this town to whisper your name and know that if you fuck with me, I will destroy you. I will destroy your family. I will destroy your soul. You got that?”

“Yeah.”

“Good.” Lee hung up.

CHAPTER 41

5:33 PM

August 13

Ed parked in the middle of the countless Streets and Sans vehicles. “All right, let’s give this a shot. Put on your friendly face.” Sam did his best to pull his features into a soft smile. Ed sighed and shook his head. “Do me a favor. Don’t fucking smile. You’re go

They got out and walked through the August heat that reverberated off the blacktop with a vengeance. By the time they stepped into the air-conditioning of the bar, they were soaked in sweat. They knew they would be under scrutiny the second they stepped inside, knew they would be made as cops instantly. There was nothing for it, nothing they could do. Just order a beer and make a general a

The bar was packed, but not one patron turned to look at them. Everyone was glued to the televisions. All seven were on news cha

WGN cut to a reporter down in a subway station. His expression was grave. “At this point, Jim, we just don’t know.”

“Well, we know that no official statements have been released at this time, but have you heard anything? What can you tell us about the authorities?” Jim, the anchorman, was getting impatient. “I mean, what are they doing to—wait a minute, Chester. I’m being told—what? Wait.” Jim broke from his lines and looked away from the teleprompter directly under the camera. “I’m sorry, but this is too—too—this is the news, for god’s sake. They can’t tell us what to—”

The director cut back to Chester, who was busy adjusting his tie.

Ed was drawn to two different news reports across the room, his attention torn between CNN and Fox News. CNN had a correspondent outside of the White House saying that the president was aware of the elevated number of deaths in Chicago, and was monitoring the situation, but that was all for now.

Fox News speculated about possible rioting and looting in Chicago. They cut to a fat white guy, an American flag pi

WGN cut to the reporter down in the subway holding his mike and talking to the cameraman and sound guy for a moment. “Any interference this way? I like the lights over here. Put me in profile. Okay. I can do another take. No sweat. And in three-two-one.” His pitch dropped while his cadence quickened. “I’m Chester Hackensack, deep in the Washington subway station. During any weekday rush hour, thousands of commuters use this particular station every five minutes at peak capacity. Tonight, it is practically empty. It is literally a ghost town.” The camera pa

Chester waited another beat. “Wish I could tell you more. Back to you, Jim.”

CNN and FOX News had cut from the experts and were now showing the same shaking, blurry footage. The shot was from overhead, definitely from a helicopter, of police chasing a frightened, scurrying figure into a playground. From the angle, it was impossible to tell if it was somewhere in the city itself or out in the suburbs. The figure, a woman, raised her arms, and kids started falling around her. There was no audio, but Ed didn’t need it. He knew only too well that he was watching a woman with a gun. Parents scooped up children and fled. The woman crawled under the slide, out of view of the helicopter. Chicago cops moved in. They surrounded her, all firing.

The CNN anchor said in halting tones, “This video was taken approximately thirty minutes ago in Chicago’s Near North neighborhood. Few details are known at this time. We can tell you that the attacker has been shot to death by the police. It is believed that at least four children are dead, with several more in critical condition in area hospitals. The names of the deceased have not been released, nor are authorities speculating about a motive.”

Fox News kept showing the footage, over and over, zooming in when the woman started shooting, while experts debated what exactly had driven the shooter to the playground. They kept repeating the word “terrorist,” sometimes with a question mark, sometimes not.

A record of fifteen homicides and counting. A husband bludgeoned his wife to death with her own clothes iron. A woman stabbed her youngest child to death with a seven-inch stainless steel knife designed to chop vegetables. A man drove his car into a line of people waiting for the bus at the corner of Michigan and Adams.

Sam caught Ed’s eye, tilted his head at the door.

They got in their car and drove east, toward the lake, toward the Loop.

Tommy clutched the phone so hard he heard the plastic crack. He forced himself to unlock his fist. The cell phone fell from his rigid fingers to the thin, industrial carpet. Deep in his mind, he knew he should have tried to keep hold of it, tried to smuggle it back to his room. Maybe he could figure out a way to make it work, to call outside the hospital, or at least text something to alert the outside world.

A single television in the center of the wall went from a blue screen to an overhead shot of a patient strapped to a bed. It was a man, a large man, and as he writhed against the restraints, his tremendous gut rolled back and forth. Tommy recognized Don almost immediately.

Don was in agony. There was no sound, but Tommy could see the open, screaming mouth. Fingers scrabbled at the mattress. The toes curled. Don’s back arched in one unending spasm. Tommy kept waiting for him to stop, to fall back slack against the bed, to collapse with fatigue, but Don never showed any sign of release. It was as if he was co