Three miles east of the rising fence lines, Missy Davis’s night already had “suck” written all over it. Missy went to Vassar, summa cum laude, fifth in her class, should have been first. Yale Law School wanted her. Or at least they’d sent her a letter. So did Stanford and the University of Chicago. She settled on Northwestern and a master’s in journalism. It was supposed to be a Christiane Amanpour redux, or some Anglo-Saxon version of such. It wasn’t supposed to be the overnight assignment desk. She ripped another piece of copy off the printer and trudged it across Channel Six’s newsroom.
“Missy, print out a hard copy of the ten o’clock rundown as well, will you?”
Ted Henderson was the overnight news editor and her boss. Missy had Ted pegged from the opening moments of her job interview. He’d worn a starched blue shirt with a black bow tie and had trouble moving his eyes from Missy’s legs (which had looked appropriately spectacular that day in a Zac Posen print). He’d offered her the position ten minutes into the interview. She’d smiled and accepted. And here she was, stuck in newsroom hell with a career middle manager, ripping scripts and running feeds to nowhere.
Missy dumped the rundown onto Ted’s desk and walked back to her own. Missy had four TVs tuned to the competition, a bank of police scanners, and a two-way so she could talk to her street crews and live trucks. It was past midnight, and the assignment desk should have been fairly quiet. It wasn’t. A little over an hour ago, there’d been reports of a possible hazardous-materials spill on the West Side. She’d sent a photographer over, a veteran stringer by the name of Dino Pillizzi. Dino had tried a couple different routes to the reported accident, but was turned away by police. Dino couldn’t figure it out. Neither could Missy.
“I just got another text from Dino,” Missy said.
“What does he say?” They were the only ones in the newsroom, and Ted Henderson spoke without looking up from his computer screen.
“He still can’t get into the haz mat.”
“Tell him to buy a fucking map.”
“He’s not lost. He can’t get in.”
Ted stopped typing. “What are you talking about?”
“He claims they’ve got the area shut down.”
“Who’s ‘they’?”
“Chicago PD. He’s tried three different routes. Nothing but roadblocks.”
Ted walked over to the assignment desk. Missy pointed to a map she’d pulled up on one of the monitors. “He’s been here on Madison. Then went south and looped around. Then doubled back and came in on Ogden. Dino says it’s a perimeter.”
“What the fuck does Dino know about a perimeter?”
“He says he saw them hauling in fencing.”
“Fencing?”
“He shot some footage but couldn’t get close enough to see where the trucks were going.”
Ted sat down beside Missy and studied the map some more. “What’s been on the scanner?”
“I told you. A possible level-three haz mat. Came across about ten-thirty. One repeat, a half hour after that.”
“Any address?”
Missy shook her head. “Just a Garfield Park locator.”
“And nothing since then?”
“Nope. No police. No fire.” Missy took a sip of her soda, tapped her foot, and waited.
“Anyone else running after this?” Ted said.
“Five might have sent someone over, but I’m not sure.”
“Can you find out?”
“Maybe.”
“What time is the chopper up?”
“Four a.m. I can call it in earlier.”
Ted began a slow drift back to his desk. “What’s the latest on the outbreak over at Cook?”
“Mayor did a gangbang at the hospital around six. Said everything was under control. Then they cleared us out. We led with it at ten.”
“How many sick?”
“Eleven confirmed deaths. Nothing specific on total number of sick.”
“What’re you hearing?”
“Latest speculation is E. coli. Before that it was bird flu and H1N1. There’s a rumor the CDC’s got its nose in it, but nothing official. It’s the West Side, so who knows?”
“We have anyone at Cook now?”
“I told you, they cleared us out. All statements are coming from downtown. I’ve got a crew staked out there all night.”
“Get Dino on the phone and transfer him over.”
Missy reached for the two-way just as one of her inside lines lit up. She cradled the receiver between her shoulder and ear as she composed another text to her cameraman. “Yeah? What’s that?” A pause. “Where?”
Ted swung his head in her direction. Missy found herself pointing at him for no particular reason. “Hang on a second.” She put the call on hold.
“What is it?” Ted said.
“They took a call on one of the outside lines. Some guy from Oak Park. Claims police are rounding up people with guns. Says they’re wearing masks and some kind of protective suits.”
“Oak Park?”
“That’s what they said.” Missy could hear the dry patch in her voice and forced herself to swallow.
“Have you talked to the guy?” Ted said.
Missy pointed to a blinking light on her console. “He was in his car and got cut off. The operator who took the call is on two.”
“Get Dino on the phone. And put the operator through to Jim’s line.”
Ted began to wind his way back to the privacy of the news director’s office.
Missy punched on the blinking line. “Did you get the guy’s name and number? Okay. I’m going to put you through to Ted Henderson. Hold on.”
A third line lit up in front of Missy. Another inside call. This time from security. Missy picked up.
“Busy back here, guys.” She listened for another moment. “Hang on.”
Missy yelled across the newsroom. “Ted?”
Ted Henderson was walking through the Channel Six Weather Control Center when Missy called his name. He stopped and squinted. In khaki pants and a pullover Brooks Brothers sweater, Ted suddenly looked awfully young, awfully pale, and awfully alone.
“We’ve got company,” Missy said.
“What’s that?” Ted ran his fingers through his hair.
“Three guys from Homeland Security. They’re up front. Want to come back and talk to us.”
Ted Henderson sat down in a straight-backed chair and stared hard at an empty Doppler radar screen. The clock over his head read 12:43 a.m.