Jeff Jacobson - Sleep Tight

Sam stood. “Any doctors in here?”

An older woman raised her hand. “I am nurse,” she said with a heavy Russian accent.

“Great,” Sam said. “Can you help him out? You employees, does anybody have a first aid kit around here?”

Somebody brought out a kit and Sam gave it to the nurse. He stepped back, letting the nurse get to work. He waited until Ed got off the phone, and they approached the body together.

Viktor looked like he was still in as much agony in death as in life. His mouth was open, upper lip curled up, baring his teeth. He had landed on his back, one leg curled awkwardly under the other. There was a fist-sized hole in the back of his skull.

“Shit,” Ed said.

Sam nodded, looking around at customs. “That’s exactly what we just stepped in, brother. You got any ideas?”

“Not right now.”

“Me, neither.”

Sam squatted next to the corpse, pulled out a pen, and used it to gently lift Viktor’s leather jacket. He couldn’t see any passport inside, and guessed that the ID must be in his back pocket. But he didn’t want to turn the body over. No point in messing up the evidence any more than necessary. He understood only too well they were facing a serious political shitstorm and blizzard of paperwork. The realization made him very, very tired.

He peered closely at Viktor’s fingernails. They were full of crinkled strips of skin and clotted blood. “Lacerations,” he said quietly, indicating the slashes across the corpse’s face, neck, and arms.

Something moved under Viktor’s shirt.

Sam dropped the pen and stood quickly. Ed already had his gun back out. “Fuck is that?” Sam asked.

Under the shirt, a small lump wriggled along Viktor’s stomach. It paused, as if resting a moment, then continued, heading for his waist.

“Goddamnit. I don’t want to put another hole in this sonofabitch,” Ed said.

Sam retrieved his pen and used it to lift the shirttail, revealing more deep gouges sliced across Viktor’s abdomen.

Something dark and furry burst into his face in an eruption of brown wings.

“Oh, fuck!” Sam blurted and fell back.

The animal flitted away, rising and dipping as it whirled throughout the hall.

“It’s a goddamn bat,” Ed said with a shaky laugh. They ignored the fluttering bat overhead for a moment and turned their attention back to Viktor. Sam lifted the shirt again, this time peeling it back to expose the nylon straps and pouches strapped to Viktor’s torso.

More of the pouches were moving. Sam said, “Better let animal control know.”

CHAPTER 3

7:39 PM

December 27

Airport security showed up first, cordoning the area off and hustling the witnesses to a series of rooms for statements. Then the paramedics hauled off the bleeding security guard. Chicago PD wasn’t long after, and soon customs flickered with popping flashbulbs. The FBI was informed, and two sleepy guys in blue suits showed up and looked like they expected somebody to bring them coffee. Another couple of guys in darker suits showed some official-looking credentials to get inside, but would neither confirm nor deny they were from the CIA. The boys from Homeland Security barged in and started barking orders. Nobody paid much attention. Some poor bastard from the FAA rushed around, looking lost and unable to answer any questions.

The word “terrorist” hung in the air like the gunpowder from Ed’s .38.

The bat had disappeared.

Once they’d given their statements to everybody, Ed and Sam sat back and enjoyed the circus. They knew damn well they were in for one hell of an ass-chewing from Commander Mendoza in the morning, but for now, it was fun to just watch the show as the various departments and agencies fought for jurisdiction. Apparently, the man had come from one of the more interesting countries in Eastern Europe, as far as the government was concerned. And no, they would only share information with the local Chicago cops if the situation demanded it, and only if they deemed the public health to be at risk.

But when three astronauts in blue plastic suits with the initials CDC stenciled in no-nonsense letters a foot high on their backs appeared at the top of the escalators, the arguing trickled into silence. The men from the CDC conferred briefly with the FBI agents, then moved on to investigate the body.

A squad of soldiers followed and formed a seven-man perimeter around the body. The rest took posts at various points throughout the room. They wore air filter masks, plastic covers over their fatigues, rubber boots sealed with duct tape, and surgical rubber gloves. Two more carried supplies for the guys in charge.

The FBI agents started moving everyone back. It wasn’t hard. All of the fight had gone out of the various agencies. It was clear that the CDC was now in charge, and nobody was protesting. Nobody wanted to go to war with the CDC.

Germs didn’t fight fair.

Once someone was dead, you could stop worrying. Get him somewhere cold where the medical guys could cut him open and figure out what killed him and you were good to go. But when that particular agency got involved . . . all bets were off. If you could catch some kind of god-awful flesh-rotting disease from a corpse, then nobody wanted to fuck around. Everybody started to look for excuses to get the hell out of there.

One of the FBI agents addressed the crowd. “Need your attention for a quick moment, folks, make sure everybody is up to speed. As of now, the body of the suspect will be handed off to the custody of the CDC.”

The guys from the CDC ignored all this and used long tongs to place the remaining bats in small jars with lids connected to a complicated air filtration machine. One stood back and instructed the others. His voice was inaudible as he leaned over the body. He stepped back and unfolded one of the thickest body bags Sam had ever seen.

“So we’d like to turn the scene over to them,” the FBI agent continued. “If we can have everyone file out in an orderly fashion, we’ll finish up the debriefing and a few other things in no time.”

Ed said out of the side of his mouth, “What ‘other things’?”

“My money’s on some kind of decontamination song and dance.”

They wandered over to the edge of the escalators and saw the CDC guys spraying everything down with foam that expanded over every surface with sea-green bubbles. Behind that was more air-filtration equipment. Buckets to step in. Collapsible rooms to march through.

“Fuck that. I paid sixty bucks for these shoes,” Ed said. “They ain’t hosing ’em down. And Carolina’s flight still hasn’t landed.”

“So much for your flowers.”

They walked away from the escalators. Sam acted like he was retrieving his briefcase, picking up a thin one abandoned in the shooting. He made a show of checking his watch as everyone crowded around the escalators. While he appeared to be merging into an organized line, he joined his partner in the far corner and they slipped through one of the employee-only doors.

CHAPTER 4

7:57 PM

December 27

Tommy Krazinsky kissed his daughter Grace good night, tucked the blanket tighter around her shoulders, and arranged Grace’s stuffed animals so they formed a protective wall around her. He made sure to slip her favorite, some kind of puppy with butterfly wings, under the blanket, so that Grace could cradle it in the crook of her small arm.

“I’d hate to forget Princess . . . who’s this again?”

“Princess Tianna Fuzzycakes, Daddy.” She watched him with a four-year-old’s solemn eyes.

“Of course. She’ll keep you safe, okay?”