Set the streets on fire, And put out the lights.
For all the times you kicked us, And all the times you smiled, For all the times you tricked us, And all the times you lied, Put out the lights,
Put out the lights,
Let the bodies fall,
And put out the lights.
—Severed Bloodlines, “Put Out the Lights”
Resistance Records, 2007
CHAPTER NINETEEN
It was a far cry from an executive suite at the Continental.
Bland and generic and mildly soul-killing, the Howard Johnson was on the unfashionable end of State Street. The afternoon light through the curtains was funereal. Behind him, the Girl Who Walks Through Walls said, “Now what?”
“We wait.” He moved to the edge of the bed, sat down.
She stepped in as though uncertain whether to stay. Ran a finger along the desk. “Nice digs.”
“Yeah, well, I wasn’t expecting company.” Cooper began to unlace his shoes. “This is just a place to ride out the storm. Once they realize we slipped past them, they’ll make a last-ditch effort to catch us while we’re close. They’ll fan out across the Loop. They’ll co-opt the CPD video camera system. They’ll get cops to do door-to-doors, popping into every bar and restaurant, looking in the restrooms. They’ll check hotels for new arrivals.”
“Last I looked, this was a hotel.”
“I booked it a week ago. Under the name Al Ginsberg.”
She said, “‘I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness, starving hysterical naked…’” She parted the curtains, looked out at the brick wall opposite, and the street below. “Never really understood the poem, but I like the way the words taste.”
“Yeah.” Cooper pulled the shoe off, shook it until the flashbang remote fell out into his hand. “Me too. Why’d you do it?”
“Huh?” She turned.
“The Exchange. Why blow it up? You killed eleven hundred people.”
“No,” she said. “I tried to tell you then. I was there to stop it.”
“Bullshit.”
“It was supposed to be empty. We’d called earlier that day, announced we had bombs in the building, that we would trigger them if they started searching. I was there to make sure it didn’t blow, not with all those people there.”
“Bang-up job. I noticed on the news how it didn’t explode.”
She crossed her arms in front of her chest. “Destroying it was supposed to be a symbol. The Exchange was built to counter us, to exclude us. We wanted to show that they can’t build a future that doesn’t include us. How would killing people have made that point?”
Cooper looked up at her. The width of her pupils, the calm in her fingers, the steady pulse at her neck, none of it suggested she was lying. But this woman could find a way to hide in an airplane bathroom. Controlling her body is part of that.
“Anyway, who are you to talk? You’re the killer. Not me.”
“Yeah? What about Bryan Vasquez?”
Her lips drew into a tight line. “He betrayed the cause.”
“The defense of every terrorist masquerading as a freedom fighter.”
“Said the storm trooper who protects the state by murdering its citizens.”
He started to reply, caught himself. You’ve got three hours to convince her that she should help you. If she vanishes, you lose. He tied his shoe. His fingers were clumsy with post-adrenaline shakes, and his ribs hurt from where he’d hit the balcony. Cooper stood, went to the minibar fridge beneath the television. It opened with a squeal. He pulled out two miniature bottles of Jack Daniels for himself. “You want a drink?” He rifled through. “They’ve got red wine, cheap champagne—”
“Vodka.”
“There’s orange juice, I could make a screwdriver.”
“Just vodka and ice.”
“You want to watch me pour it? Murdering storm trooper and all?”