She nodded. He could see her mouth in the light, a small line. “He went with me a few times,” she said. “He sat in the back, next to the aquariums, and did homework while I talked to the owner. He loved it back there. Something about the light. He always wanted to come.” Her voice trailed off, then she looked at him, her eyes stricken with grief. “That’s where the kidnapper found him? He picked him out? Like he was picking out a pet? He just chose him and took him?”

“He must have followed you home.”

The walkie-talkie in Archie’s hand popped and crackled. “Detective Sheridan?” a voice said.

“I’m here,” Archie said, lifting it to his mouth.

“We found your detective. Flannigan. He managed to make it up a fire escape. He’s fine.”

Archie closed his eyes and exhaled. It made him cough, and he turned his head to his shoulder. His lungs cramped and he fought to catch his breath.

When he’d recovered he looked up to see the Liftons and Eaton staring at him.

“Flannigan’s okay,” Archie said.

Diana Lifton pointed at the blanket over Archie’s shoulder where he’d turned his head when he’d coughed, and where a dark splatter was visible on the gray wool.

“It’s blood,” she said.

Chapter 62

CHAPTER

62

Archie’s lung X-ray was displayed brightly on a black flat-screen monitor in the Emanuel emergency room. Dr. Fergus was sitting on a stool. He was tall, and the stool was too short for him, so his knees buckled out at odd, overly acute angles. Fergus typed something up on a keypad with two fingers, stopping every once in a while to hunt for a letter. The stool was on coasters, and Fergus had been rolling it around the same circle since he sat down. Archie wasn’t sure he even knew he was doing it.

The Guard fatigues were deemed too damp, and Archie was now back in hospital hand-me-down finest—purple sweatpants, a golf shirt from some tournament in Indiana, and loafers a size too big. Where was the hospital getting all these clothes? From the morgue?

He examined the X-ray. His lungs looked like someone had stuffed cotton in them and the cotton had settled at the bottom.

Fergus was still typing. “We’re going to gussy up a suite upstairs and name it after you because of all the business you bring us,” he said, not looking up.

“Ha ha,” Archie said.

“You should have called me when the fever started.”

Fergus hit enter on the keyboard, pulled a pad of paper from his lab coat pocket, and scribbled something on it. Then he ripped the prescription off the pad and wheeled around to face Archie, who was sitting in a chair. “I’m putting you on antibiotics,” he said, handing Archie the slip. “These are big league. They’ll probably do the trick.”