Thick clods of dark red paint were peeling from the beams that supported the fire escape, and the whole structure was rusting badly, but when I tested the bottom step it didn’t creak or squeal. The next one up was the same. I crept up to the first platform without making a sound. It ran the whole width of the house. An emergency door served it from each end, and four windows overlooked it. I tried both doors. Both were locked. The windows were all closed. But two had frosted glass. That meant they would lead to bathrooms. Which was good. Bathrooms are less likely to be permanently occupied than bedrooms or kitchens or living rooms. And anyone who did happen to be inside would be in less of a position to resist.
I picked the window on the left, because it was closer. I worked my fingers between the casement and the soft, rotting wooden frame. Then forced them up toward the center, where I guessed the catch would be. And pulled.
The window gave way with no more than a soggy tearing sound, like ripping open a damp cardboard package, and I caught the remains of the lock before it hit the iron platform. But still I ducked down, out of sight. I waited for two minutes. Nothing stirred from inside, so I climbed into the room. I balanced on the end of the bathtub. Stepped down and crossed to the doorway. Checked the landing. And headed down the stairs.
Normally I would have expected McIntyre to favor one of the upstairs rooms. It would give him a better view of anyone approaching from outside. Separate him from any random trespassers, snooping around for anything easy to steal. And give him a tactical advantage, if it should become necessary to defend his position. But today I wasn’t interested in finding him straight away. It was more important to intercept Dr. Rollins on his way back out of the building. He could fill me in on McIntyre’s condition. Whether he was armed. The location and layout of his bolt-hole. And possibly provide a way to persuade McIntyre to open his door without me having to break it down.
At first I thought there were two apartments on the first floor, because there was an entrance at right angles on either side of the glass door that led to the large, square entrance lobby. One was locked. But the other door swung open as soon as I touched the handle. It led to a wide space with a tiled floor, fluorescent lights, and rough whitewashed walls. It was empty, but from the marks on the tiles and the remnants of pipe work strewn everywhere I’d say it had been a laundry room. No doubt useful for the people who’d lived in the building when it was still occupied. And certainly convenient for me, now.
I was still rooting around in the debris on the floor, looking for a length of abandoned pipe to use as a backup weapon, when I heard footsteps in the hallway above me. I moved quickly, sliding into place behind the open door and checking the view through the gap beneath the hinges. The footsteps moved to the stairs. They started to come down. There was only one set. The person was in a hurry. They reached the ground. Then I saw a figure reflected in the glass entrance door. It was Dr. Rollins. He scampered across the corridor and reached out, his hand shaking almost uncontrollably as he scrabbled for the latch. It wouldn’t turn. He wrestled with it, focusing entirely on the lock and paying no attention at all to his surroundings. A ten-year-old could have strolled up and tapped him on the back without him noticing. So it was no challenge at all to clamp my left hand over his mouth, grab his collar with my right, and march him back into the laundry, out of sight.
I closed the door behind me with my foot and led Rollins into the center of the room, under the light, where it was bright and spacious. His quivering was getting worse by the second, and I didn’t want him completely losing control. Not yet, anyway.
“Can you hear me?” I said. “Can you understand what I’m saying?”
I felt the muscles in his neck stiffen a little, but he didn’t answer.
“Dr. Rollins, can you hear me?” I said. “I don’t want you to worry. I’m here to help you. Now, if I let go, will you make a noise?”
His head twitched slightly. “This is important, Doctor,” I said. “I need to be sure. Personal safety is on the line here, for both of us. So, if I let go, will you scream?”
This time he went to the opposite extreme, jerking his head wildly from side to side.
I removed my left hand from his mouth, and when twenty seconds passed without him squealing, I let go of his collar.
“Excellent,” I said. “Thank you. Now, turn around. Let’s talk.”
Rollins didn’t move.
“What’s wrong with your feet?” I said.
He didn’t answer.
“Are they stuck to the floor?” I said.
He stayed silent.
“Did you tread in wet cement?” I said. “Shall I call the fire department?”
Still nothing.
“Let’s simplify this,” I said. “Turn around. Answer my questions. Or I walk out of here and let the Chicago police come in and collect you.”
Rollins groaned softly and started to sway, but he still didn’t turn.
“The guy upstairs—he’s no choirboy,” I said. “You’ve been aiding and abetting a wanted felon. You’ve been caught red-handed. The police want to throw you in jail. And you know what will happen to a guy like you in jail, don’t you, Doctor?”
Rollins was silent again.
“You know what they’ll do to you?” I said. “Let’s just agree, it won’t be you giving the injections.”
“You’re disgusting,” he said.
“Maybe,” I said. “But do you want that, Doctor? Night after night?”
“No,” he said, eventually. “Of course not—but—please. I had no choice.”
“You have now,” I said. “Go to jail, or talk to me. Choose wisely. I’m the only one who can help you.”
“How? How can you help?”
“Turn around and we’ll talk.”
“Who are you? What can you do?”
“Turn around. Now.”
He stayed still.
“There are police officers outside,” I said. “Twelve. If you’re lucky, they might just shoot you. You could die in this room. In about thirty seconds. Unless you show me your face.”
Rollins shuffled around in a tight circle, taking tiny, slow steps like an arthritic old man. He was staring at the floor. I said nothing. His eyes crept up as far as my knees. I waited. They reached my waist. My chest. He faltered. Got a grip on himself. Wiped his eyes. And finally, awkwardly, managed to look me half in the face.
“My name is David Trevellyan,” I said. “I’m from the British Consulate. The man you’ve been helping is a friend of mine. Was a friend, anyway. That’s why I’m prepared to give you a break.”
“He’s your friend?” Rollins said. “He’s a psycho. He’s insane.”
“No, he’s a soldier. A veteran, from Afghanistan. He has PTSD. Very badly, I’m told.”
“So what’s he doing in Chicago? Running me all around the city? And threatening my family? He did that, you know. That’s why I helped him. There was no money involved.”
“It’s a long story. He doesn’t know what he’s doing. He may not even recognize me, he’s so far gone. But if I don’t talk him down, the police will shoot him. Half the officers they have out there are snipers. Six of them. All top-of-the-line experts. I have one chance to save him. Only one.”
“That’s not my problem. I’ve done my part. Why won’t you just let me go?”
“I will. But I need your help, first.”