The Hound of Justice Page 3

  “What does your chief say?”

  “I don’t know. I’ll find out next week.”

  Next week marked the end of Sara’s leave of absence. Good. Holmes with a mission had proved impossible, incorrigible. Holmes cut off from her usual information sources and left adrift? Well, I hadn’t murdered her yet, but the odds were shifting in that direction.

  She offered the bottle again. This time, I took a swig of the whiskey, then stood up. “Time for bed,” I told her.

  Sara grunted and lit another cigarette.

  I headed to my bedroom and shrugged off my coat onto the bed. It landed with a thump, which surprised me. When I searched through its pockets, I discovered a small paperback. Something something classic SF in the vein of some author whose name I didn’t recognize. The cover was as generic as the title. It took me a moment before I remembered the bookstore—Rainbow Books. I must have stuffed the book into my coat pocket before I plunged into the chaos. God. I’d have to make time tomorrow to return it.

  I dropped the book onto my desk, and myself onto the bed. My bones ached. My muscles ached. And my shiny new device, though it fit my stump so perfectly, felt like a heavy useless weight.

  Practice, Sydney Okora told me every week. Practice until your new device becomes an extension of your own body.

  I raised my left arm and curled each finger one by one until I had a fist. The faint light from the corridor seemed to catch fire along the mesh covering.

  Next week, Sara would resume active duty with the FBI, or whatever shadowy subsection of the agency she belonged to. Next week, she would get her implants activated. She might even gain that much-needed assignment.

  But what happens to us? What happens to this apartment? How much longer will we have this refuge of beauty?

  I ran through the usual exercises Sydney had assigned me. Finger curls. Stretches. Slowly at first, then faster. My metal hand lagged only a moment, if that, behind the ghost hand of memories. Was I truly making progress? I couldn’t tell, not today, not after Allison Carter had shamed me in the ER.

  Even so, I persisted.

  By the time I finished, Sara had turned off the radio, but Richard Speiker’s voice droned on from the vid-box about the dangers of white annihilation. Once, I had believed his kind was an anomaly. Once, in spite of all the evidence against me, I had believed our country had escaped the fascism of the late 2010s. Apparently not.

  Speiker’s voice faded away. The apartment was dark and quiet. I undressed for the night and removed my device. Lazarus. Maybe I would ask Faith what she thought about the name.

  2

  Ten thirty A.M., Wednesday. I had twenty more minutes to fill with Faith Bellaume, and I was damned close to saying, Let’s stop pretending. We aren’t neither of us feeling it today. Oh sure, Faith had started off with a pointed question about yesterday’s bombing and whether it had called up the old bad panic courtesy of Alton, Illinois.

  Of course it did. Created a whole new set of nightmares, too, thank you very much.

  But I wasn’t up to talking about my nightmares, so I offered an answer straight out of the Good Patient Handbook. Yes, I’d panicked. (The patient admits to a natural reaction.) But I’d managed to get my panic under control. The drills, you know. They helped a great deal. (Patient acknowledges the value of medical advice.) From there I babbled on about the everyday stress that came with a surgeon’s job, carefully skirting any mention of my confrontation with Dr. Allison Carter.

  I’d about run out of invention when Faith held up a hand.

  “You are angry.”

  Statement, not a question.

  Okay, then.

  “I’m always angry,” I said. “Ask me something new.”

  She nodded, as though she’d expected this push-back. “Very well. You are angry. Why, then? Why, when you have that expensive new prosthetic, and a job beyond anything you hoped for?”

  All the words I had flayed myself with for the past six weeks.

  I sucked in a breath and hunkered down onto the padded bench, metal hand clasped in flesh. The air in the room seemed unnaturally thin, as though I had climbed a mountain. More dangerous were the sparks, like lightning, that signaled a storm of rage.

  Safe space, safe space. Remember your safe and happy space.

  I reached out for that small and vivid memory, of the moment when the acceptance message from Howard University showed up in my inbox. My parents—both my parents, alive and enveloping me in hugs. My sister, Grace, standing off to one side, rolling her eyes, but with her mouth tilting into a smile. And me thinking, I did it. I will do it. Yes, I can.

  Of all the moments in my life, this one remained strong. Faith had worked with me for weeks, first choosing a memory, then teaching me how to immerse myself in all its details whenever despair sucked me into the dark hole of rage and terror.

  With an effort, I untangled my fingers and forced out a breath.

  “I want to be a surgeon,” I said.

  “You’ve mentioned this from time to time. How goes the occupational therapy?”

  “It goes,” I said. “Not as fast as I would like.”

  “Hmmmm.”

  “I understand this will take some time. I just . . .”

  I just want to deserve my very expensive new device and that high-paying new job, which, by the way, came courtesy of the U.S. government, or at least of Sara Holmes. All to keep me quiet about the events of last October.

  “I’m not sure I can explain,” I said. “It’s complicated.”

  That was our code word for “subjects of a sensitive nature related to national security,” or what I called “things we were not allowed to discuss in any detail.”

  Faith nodded. “We are constrained, you and I.”

  What a pretty way to put that. Sara’s people had offered me a choice. Choose another therapist, one cleared to discuss any issues related to Adler Industries and the events in Alton, Illinois, and Jonestown. Or, continue to meet with Faith Bellaume, but with certain restrictions.

  I chose Faith. I could tell when a representative from the agency had visited her to explain these restrictions, because throughout our next session, she had studied me with an air of open curiosity. She’d said nothing, of course. Nor had I.

  I tried again. “It’s a matter of whether I deserve these gifts. Yes, yes, that’s all the baggage of memories. I know. But . . . I would be happier if I were making faster progress. Georgetown isn’t a charity. They’ll want good value for their money.”

  Another hmmm.

  “And,” I went on, “I want good value for that money too. I have my pride. I trained hard to be a surgeon. I thought I’d lost everything after Alton. Turns out life gave me a second chance. I don’t want to screw this up.”

  “Which frightens you.”

  “Of course it does.”

  I took another deep breath, remembered how my father had gripped me by both shoulders and said, laughing and crying, Goddammit, girl. Goddamn, I knew you’d do it.

  “I’m frightened,” I whispered. “Frightened and tired and fresh out of epiphanies. Check back next week for a new delivery. I need you to help me out today.”

  “All right,” she said softly. “Let’s start with our list of guilty words.”

  Meaning, words that poked at my guilt.

  “Deserve,” she said. “Charity. Value.”

  I shuddered. Words that my parents had used all the time. Not against me or my sister. But still. Words soak into our brains, Faith told me early on in our sessions. Good and bad ones, both. Her job was to teach me how to recognize them first, then how to cope.

  The coping part was going slowly.

  “My value is not the same thing as my job,” I recited. “It’s not a marker of what I deserve.”

  “You don’t sound convinced.”

  “I’m not. I— It’s complicated.”

  “Ah, that word again. Necessary, I understand. But you must not use that word to avoid difficult topics. W
ell, let’s talk about charity today. You’re a surgeon. How long does it take for your patients to recover?”

  An all-too-obvious question, but at least I was more annoyed than angry.

  “It depends on the injury,” I replied.

  She laughed, a low musical laugh that reminded me of my mother and the South. Faith had been born in Mississippi, as her parents moved state by state toward the East Coast after Hurricane Katrina. Yet another tenuous bond between us, and another reason I chose to keep her as my therapist.

  “Very well,” she said. “We won’t argue the matter. But consider . . .” Here she leaned forward over the table. “Consider what you lost at Alton. You lost your arm. You lost your confidence. Your sense of self, or at least the one you depended on for so many years. You need time, Janet. Time to learn this new definition of your body. Time to heal.”

  I’d never heard her speak so passionately before. I caught my breath, unable at first to reply, or look away.

  She smiled—a bit ruefully, I thought.

  “So,” she said. “Let us discuss a few techniques.”

  In our remaining time, we talked about trigger words, about coping, about the necessity for kindness. Faith and I both knew that talking was the easy part. She could not teach me kindness; she could not magically erase the arguments I heard between my grandmother and my parents, or the belief that if I only gained this one success, then all the anger between them would disappear.

  But talking did help, at least for a time. It was like steam escaping from the boiling kettle. Better to talk than explode.

  Our session came to another predictable end. I drank a last cup of lemon-flavored water, while Faith regarded me with those calm brown eyes. Any moment now she would launch into the usual windup—a summary of what we’d discussed, the reminder to practice my one-minute meditation, a comment that she would see to refilling my scripts for antianxiety meds . . .

  “We are making progress,” Faith said. “You are. I can see it.”

  “Except?” I prompted.

  “Except that you have these moments, where you lose yourself to the world.” When I started to speak, she held up a hand. “Mind, I’m not saying you don’t have cause to be angry. You do. But there’s a difference between acknowledging your anger and letting it harm you, and while our talks, and your medication, can help, I’d like to explore another technique. One we can use in addition to talk therapy. I’ll tell you more about it next time. It will be your choice, naturally.”

  Naturally. Faith had proved remarkably persuasive these past six months. But no, I was being unfair. Every single decision about my therapy had truly been mine alone.

  I nodded. “Thank you. Until next time.”

  Afterward, as usual, I met with the assistant to schedule my next appointment. Every two weeks, these days, when once I had come two or three times in a single week. Perhaps I was making progress after all.

  Even so, I felt queasy as I made my way to the exit of the VA hospital.

  Outside, the day was raw and cool. Late January, with clouds scudding overhead and the scent of snow in the air. My back ached, where Nadine Adler had shot me.

  A taxi came around the corner—one of those auto-drive cabs with the fancy new technology designed to recognize a human flagging them down. Its medallion signaled it was available, but when I waved a hand toward the camera sensor, it never slowed.

  A second cab coasted along, another auto-drive. It, too, passed me by.

  I blew out a frosted breath. Damn. I should just walk.

  A third cab zipped by, only to stop halfway down the block for a young white couple. One wore military fatigues; the other was heavily pregnant. The servicewoman glanced in my direction, clearly embarrassed. She spoke to her partner, and they both gestured for me to take the cab. I shook my head and smiled to show I was okay.

  A few more taxis drove by, some with drivers, some not. Six months ago, when I had an old, battered device, when I dressed in patched fatigues, no one had stopped for me, not without a lot of arguing. Seems that nice clothes and a shiny new device didn’t make much difference.

  Another cab, with an actual human at the wheel, pulled over to the curb.

  “Taxi, ma’am?”

  He was black, like me. And he reminded me of Jacob, with his close-cut Afro, speckled with silver.

  I climbed into the cab. “Georgetown hospital, please.”

  “You got it, sister. How fast you wanna go?”

  “As fast as the speed limit, my brother. That fast and no more.”

  He grinned, and the taxi jolted into traffic.

  I leaned back and closed my eyes. Therapy always left me drained and off-balance. Afternoon rounds would cure me of that. I could watch from outside the circle of doctors and interns, an interested observer without any need to truly involve myself in the patient’s fate.

  What about your own fate, my friend?

  I heard those words in Saúl Martínez’s voice. Back in the service, on one of those days where we’d lost too many patients, and I was ranting in despair, Saúl had served up shots of whiskey and advice. He’d warned me about the danger when a surgeon crossed the line between caring for their patient and seeing every setback, every death, as a judgment from God.

  Saúl, dead last October . . .

  I pressed both hands against my eyes. Drew a steady breath, then another, and focused on this moment. Saúl’s death was not my fault. Nadine Adler had ordered his murder simply to make certain he and I could not discuss all those mysterious deaths. I knew that. At the same time, I wished I had never emailed him about Belinda Díaz. He might have lived. He might have—

  My cell buzzed for an incoming message. I dug the phone out of my pocket and swiped the screen.

  EHernandez, read the display.

  Chief Medical Officer Dr. Esma Hernandez, that was.

  I pressed my thumb to the identi-pad and tabbed the Accept icon, but the call had already switched over to voice mail. Shit. Had Carter complained about me then? I wouldn’t have been all that surprised. Carter had a reputation for trampling roughshod over people she considered competitors. I hadn’t thought of myself as one, but who could tell?

  The voice mail icon blinked. Reluctantly I pressed the button to hear the message.

  “Dr. Watson. I have a few issues to discuss with you. It’s nothing but politics, but I want to get your input. Come see me ASAP once you report in.”

  My stomach folded into a cold knot. Issues. Politics. Those were all code words for We regret offering you this position.

  Girl, you are letting your imagination run away with you.

  Maybe so, but sadly, I couldn’t order my imagination around. The twenty minutes to GUH seemed more like a hundred and twenty. When the driver pulled over to the curb, I tipped him an extra ten and jogged up the steps to the front door.

  ***

  Dr. Esma Hernandez leaned over her desk and fixed me with a pleasant smile.

  “It’s a matter of politics,” she said. “Personal as well as hospital politics, this time. I warned you at the beginning that there would always be someone who resents you. For your title, your salary. Never mind your qualifications. It’s the same for everyone.”

  I fixed an equally pleasant smile on my face and waited for the rest.

  “In your own case,” she went on, “we have the extra matter of your new device and occupational therapy. Some see this as special treatment.”

  Those were a reward, I thought. Not to mention, a bribe for my silence. But of course, those who granted such rewards would expect more. They always did.

  “What’s your advice, then?” I asked.

  She paused a long moment, and I braced myself.

  “A delay,” she said at last. “A short one. We originally planned for you to transition to full-time surgeon in June. Now . . . I believe we should wait until later in the year. Meanwhile . . .”

  Meanwhile, she wanted me to submit an abstract to the fifth annual Internationa
l Conference for Critical Care, sponsored by Georgetown University, with additional funding from the federal government. I vaguely recalled noise about the event its first year. Saúl had made several caustic remarks about buying a good reputation with a couple open bars and a spotlight on ambitious doctors.

  Still. Conferences had their good points. And Georgetown liked their senior medical staff to give talks and write papers.

  “You could present a paper on treating patients under wartime conditions,” Hernandez went on. “Write up a few proposals and we can review them together. Depending on the reception, you could submit a fleshed-out version of the paper to medical journals.”

  And it would quash any rumors of special treatment.

  I accepted the paperwork from Hernandez. Something in my expression must have showed because she quickly said, “It’s political, nothing more. It’s the game we play at this level. You must understand.”

  “Of course,” I said.

  We exchanged perfunctory smiles. Perhaps that was all Hernandez required—a reassurance that I would play the game of politics. But when I stood up to leave, she gestured for me to stay.

  “I’ve been remiss with our one-on-ones,” she said. “Tell me . . . how does your training go? Sydney forwards me regular reports, of course, but I like to hear things from the patient’s perspective.”

  Oh, you do, do you?

  “It goes,” I said slowly. “We’ve scheduled an official evaluation next month.”

  “That’s excellent,” she said, with far too much enthusiasm. “I know we told you that you would have six months of training, but if you need more, you shall have it.”

  More code words, this time for Are you worth the time? And Is this occupational therapy worth the money?

  Both of them dangerous questions.

  I could only nod, however, and murmur something about researching an appropriate topic for the conference. Hernandez didn’t mention my confrontation with Carter the day before. I didn’t mention any doubts about my progress with my device.

  “Do you think you can have that abstract to me by the end of April?” Hernandez said. “Deadline is May fifteenth.”