Katherine Lawson sank into her seat and watched the wooden ties of the tracks flash beneath the window. The Blue Line train picked up speed as it left the station and leaned into a curve. Lawson laid her head against the glass, al owing the car’s motion to carry her back. The first image she saw was Hubert Russel, neck stretched, spinning slowly over his desk. Then came Kel y, eyes like open coffins, holding her hand as the lid slammed shut on his friend and dirt thumped al around.
Lawson started and opened her eyes. Her train was pul ing into the station at UIC-Halsted. It was just midafternoon, and the car was thankful y empty, save for a woman with tired eyes who was heading to work in her Target uniform. Lawson slipped off her black gloves and flexed her fingers. Then she laid the gloves in her lap and folded her hands over them. They were diving under the city now, into the subway, barreling toward the Loop. She looked out the window, at the banks of lights clipping past as they raced along the tunnel. The papers Lawson had copied were in her bag. She pul ed them out and read through the material once again. Then she felt the key in her pocket. It opened the CTA access door near Clinton, the spot where they had found Maria Jackson’s body a week ago. Lawson checked her watch. Her meeting was set for five. Plenty of time. She stood up, put on her gloves and pul ed them tight. The woman in the Target uniform smiled as the train glided to a halt. Lawson smiled back. Then the doors slid open, and she stepped onto the dim platform.
LAWSON SCRAPED HER SHOES through the dirt, looking up at layers of dust floating above her in various levels of light. Jackson’s body had been discovered less than a mile from where she was walking, but that wasn’t the federal agent’s concern. Her eyes fol owed a string of lights, running along the subway tracks and into the darkness. This wasn’t the sealed fluorescent lighting she’d seen on her ride into the city. These were lightbulbs, old-school, just as she remembered from the Jackson crime scene. And that bothered her.
Somewhere, a rumble vol eyed and echoed. Lawson instinctively stepped back and touched the grip on her gun. She could feel the vibration through her feet, hear it in the steel. The rumble grew until the train seemed like it was right on top of her. Then she saw it through a gap, a leap of fury and light, three tracks over, blowing around the corner and down the tunnel. Lawson cast her eyes overhead and watched the bulbs sway, throwing shadows on the wal s around her. Then the train was past. The bulbs continued to rock in a subtle, declining arc, and soon the only sound was again the shuffle of her feet.
Lawson walked for another ten minutes, then turned back toward the door she’d come in. She’d spend the rest of her day thinking about the subway, the lightbulbs, and her meeting, al of which was good-mostly, because it kept her from thinking about the rest.