Lee didn’t give a damn. She could drown in there as far as he was concerned. He’d dug a bottle of cheap gin out of the back of his kitchen pantry somebody had left during his housewarming party and sat in front of the windows, staring at the Chicago skyline. The only light came from the television, but the sound was muted, so all Lee could hear was the hum of the air-conditioning and the occasional dull rush of hot water in the bathtub.

His uncle’s voice was cold. “I told you this was going to come back and bite you in the ass.”

Lee was drunk, but knew he’d better at least act like he was sorry. Arguing would just make things worse. And drunk or not, he needed his uncle’s help. “My apologies,” he mumbled.

His uncle sighed. “I’ve been up for the past three fucking days, trying to fix your mistakes. I’m tired and I’m pissed. You’re lucky you’re my nephew, or I’d have some fellas I know come over and teach you a fucking lesson. Give you a chance to try wiping your ass with a fucking hook.”

Lee stayed quiet, giving his Phil a chance to vent.

“As it is, there’s no goddamn point. The big boys are scared. They’re looking for a scapegoat. They’re kicking around a few names, but I gotta tell you, yours is at the top of the list.”

Lee shot to his feet. “So why’d you call then? Just to rip me a new asshole? Huh? What, make yourself feel better?”

“I called because I feel responsible, and to let you know that by this time tomorrow night, it’ll be all over. All your friends are distancing themselves from you. Me included. Got no choice. You’re goddamn toxic and nobody, but nobody, is going to want to be associated with you. I called to give you the name of a good lawyer. Forget about using the usual firm. No fucking way they’re going near this shit.”

“You can take your lawyer and shove him up your ass. I’m gonna ride this out and fucking bury you.” Lee hung up. For several long seconds, he glared at his reflection in the windows. The rage built, vibrating up through his feet, his legs, his guts. He ground his teeth together. Luckily, the bathroom was silent. So instead of kicking the door down and dragging Kimmy out by her hair, he whipped his phone at the TV. It bounced off with a small popping noise, leaving a spiderweb of cracks the size of a coaster.

When Ed and Sam had gone into the office, Qween slipped back past the church and into the dormitory, her sneakers silent on the plush carpeting. The mission was a fixture in the neighborhood; it had been around for years. Everybody knew about the homeless men carrying drug money. Few, though, knew about the homeless women and sometimes young men who were enticed with promises of a hot meal, a warm place to sleep, and of course, eternal salvation and taken downstairs, given their own rooms, and told to wait patiently for a select group of clientele, who, as it turned out, liked to inflict a little damage with their love.

She found the door she wanted in the back of the mission and quietly unzipped her bag. She gently squeezed the door handle and twisted. The door opened on a small office.

An older man was asleep at the desk. He was wearing a suit, but it was about ten years out of fashion, faded and tight on his soft, bulging frame. She set the bag on the floor and shut the door, not bothering to be quiet anymore.

The man opened his eyes and blinked as she shot the dead bolt home.

Qween said, “Told you I’d be back.”

The man nodded. “I remember you. I remember Jesus wouldn’t forgive your sins, no matter how hard we tried to save you.”

“You gonna wish Jesus was here to save you, motherfucker.”

He stood. Came around the desk. “I told you that if you set foot in this building again with that foul mouth I would—”

He’d gotten as far as the front of the desk when Qween pulled the bowling ball from her bag and dropped it on his foot. It landed with a jarring crunch and rolled away. He gasped, and bent over to clutch at his ankle, as if the foot hurt too much to touch. He stammered, “I’ma make sure—”

Qween wasn’t paying attention. She retrieved her ball and lobbed it at him with an underhanded toss, using both hands. It soared up about six feet. She stopped to catch her breath, and eyed the room. It hadn’t changed much in eight years.

The ball landed with a whispered crunch on the base of his spine and the man flopped forward. This time, he couldn’t suppress a short scream. One hand shot to the small of his back and the other splayed out for support or mercy, Qween wasn’t sure which. She didn’t care either way.

Eight years. Long time to carry that much weight. She was more than ready to unload it on the bastard who had raped her. She noted the same dark cheap wood imitation walls. The same puke-green carpet. The same set of Bibles. The same set of encyclopedias from 1974. Eight years ago the bastard had put a knife on the desk and said that if she gave him any problems, he would take this blade and shove it up her asshole. Then he would watch her try to get help as she slowly bled to death.

He’d smiled. Said either his dick or his knife was going in her ass and it was all up to her.

She picked up the bowling ball yet again and dropped it on his hand. Another scream. This one was long and heartfelt. She dropped the ball again on his broken foot, grinding fractured bones together.

There was a knock on the door. “Qween?” Sam’s voice. “You good?” He tried the handle, but the dead bolt held the door.

The man rolled over, trying to find his breath to shout for help. Qween dropped the ball on the guy’s crotch. Sour vomit spilled from between his teeth.

Qween called back to the door. “Not yet. But I’m getting there.” She picked up the ball again. It was growing heavier.

“You got thirty seconds to finish your business,” Sam said.

“We’re leaving.”

Qween struggled to lift the ball higher. The guy was moaning at the floor, good hand held up as if to deflect the bowling ball, wherever it might land. Qween’s breath whistled between the wide gaps in her teeth as she planted her feet, squared her hips, and slowly, slowly hefted the ball above her head.

“Oh God, oh God, don’t, I have—”

She raised the bowling ball almost a full foot over her head and dropped it on his face.

CHAPTER 45

9:23 PM

August 13

They left Tommy alone in front of the TVs for a while to think about what was coming. For a while, he’d fought to maintain perspective, trying to convince himself that people weren’t kept in hospitals against their will, that as soon as these doctors realized that he wasn’t sick, they would discharge him. He would be allowed to leave. He would see Grace again. Soon.

That had been the old Tommy. The Tommy who had faith. In God. In America. In the government. In people.

The hospital had burned most of this faith right out of him.

Now he fought against the despair that threatened to sweep him away, that sapped his strength, stole his will to live. The throbbing in his head never left. When he did speak, his voice was wavering and weak. He lived on nothing but protein shakes he drank through a straw. His muscles felt slack and useless; he guessed he might have lost at least ten pounds. Maybe fifteen. If things didn’t change, he was going to die, virus or not.

Tommy forced himself to slow down and concentrate. He let his eyes glaze over, so the disturbing images on the TVs sank into a blurry haze, and he focused on the face of his daughter in his mind. He could see her smiling. Hear her laugh when they threw the rubber chickens at the Son of Svengoolie. Feel her arms around his neck.

Same as before, two technicians and Sergeant Reaves came in to take him back upstairs. Tommy couldn’t tell if it was the same two techs or not, but these looked like they’d been on duty twenty-four hours at least. Their eyes were sunken and dull. They moved like robots in need of oil. No weapons.