The Hound of Justice Page 9

  A question for later.

  “I do not have a moment,” I told Sara. “Not now. We can talk tomorrow.”

  Sara shrugged. “As you wish. I’ve had news that might interest you. But . . . as you said, we can talk tomorrow.”

  She made no move to leave, however. Instead she extracted a clove cigarette from her pocket and lit it with our candle. Everyone around us was staring, or frowning, or both, and the waiter was hurrying toward our table.

  “Later,” I repeated firmly.

  Holmes finally seemed to notice Adanna. “Oh, hello. You must be Janet’s new friend. So sorry to interrupt. Later, then.”

  She sauntered out of the restaurant, with a dozen pairs of eyes following her. Some looked scandalized, others sniffed in obvious disgust. The only person I cared about sat opposite me, her expression strangely blank.

  “My roommate,” I said awkwardly. “Sara. She’s . . .”

  “. . . A free spirit?” Adanna said.

  “Something like that.”

  “Hmmm.”

  To my relief, our first dishes arrived, hot and sizzling and aromatic. We spent a few moments sharing them out. Adanna asked for chopsticks. I chose to keep my knife and fork.

  I stabbed the fork into my dumpling and dipped it into the chili oil. “Speaking of not-boring, I operated on a dead person today. That was part of my evaluation.”

  “Was it difficult?”

  “Not as difficult as I expected. I’ve done this before . . .” Before Alton. Before I lost my arm. But I wasn’t ready to talk about Alton with this woman, not yet. “It’s part of our training,” I said awkwardly.

  I started to describe the procedure, then realized it was not the best topic for dinner conversation. From there I stumbled through a story about my interns and their very different personalities, but my every pause was answered by Adanna Jones with a noncommittal reply.

  Goddamn you, Sara Holmes. You have a lot to answer for.

  “So,” I said brightly. “How about you?”

  The rest of the evening went about as well as you might expect. We soon exhausted our supply of polite conversation. When our main dishes arrived, we concentrated on the food, with occasional comments on how delicious the meal was. When the waiter arrived with our check, we set down our utensils, and I couldn’t miss the obvious relief on Adanna’s face.

  “My treat,” I said.

  She simply nodded. I thought she might flee at once, but she politely waited for me to pay the bill.

  Outside, we paused on the sidewalk. The night was crisp and cold and clear, but clouds blurred the eastern sky, and a hint of sleet hung in the air. I had hoped to walk Adanna home, or at least to the nearest Metro stop, but obviously that wasn’t about to happen.

  “I’m sorry,” I said.

  “For what?”

  “For Sara. She’s . . . a difficult person. And I . . .”

  But I could tell Adanna wanted to hear no excuses about Sara Holmes.

  “Do you have a free evening next week?” I said.

  She hesitated. Long enough that my throat went tight and dry.

  “I’m a bit occupied next week,” she said at last. “I need to write up my inventory before tax season hits.”

  A reasonable excuse, but I knew it was just an excuse.

  I wanted to explain. I wanted to make an apology that mattered.

  But doing that might bring her all kinds of extra trouble.

  “I’d like to see you again,” I said.

  She nodded. “And I would like to see you but . . . One of the difficulties that Timothy and I had was honesty. I very much need my friends to be honest with me. Do you understand?”

  I am being honest.

  But I knew better. A person could lie with silence as well as words.

  Adanna rested a hand lightly on my arm. “It’s not the end of the world, Janet.”

  Oh, but it was an end of something.

  ***

  I walked back to 2809 Q Street through the cold and mist of this late February night. Punishing myself, Faith would call it. Damn straight. The weather decided to play along with my self-pity and delivered. Clouds moved in to block out the moon, the mist turned into a steady drizzle, and for the first time since December, my stump ached fiercely. By the time I reached the apartment, the drizzle had penetrated my coat and my face was stiff from the cold.

  It took me two tries before I could fumble my right hand free from its glove. I pressed my thumb against the biometric keypad, praying to God, the God I told myself I no longer believed in, that the electronics and my own body wouldn’t fail me.

  The lock clicked open. I stumbled inside.

  By the time the elevator reached the second floor, my face had begun to prickle with renewed sensation. A hot shower was my first goal, then a mug of scalding-hot tea. Then . . .

  I paused outside the apartment door, dripping and shivering.

  Voices, loud and distinct, leaked through the solid door.

  Strangers. Damn it.

  I nearly turned around to find a hotel for the night, but I was too weary, too cold. Muttering a string of curses, I unlocked the door and went inside. I could hurry through the crowd and take refuge in my bedroom. No tea, but at least the hot shower was still an option.

  There were no strangers, no crowd at all. Just Sara Holmes, hunkered down in one of the parlor’s overstuffed chairs. Sara had a lit cigarette dangling from her mouth. Her battery-operated radio sat in the middle of the table, tuned into an indie newsfeed about the upcoming peace negotiations. The porcelain bowl she liked to use as an ashtray was overflowing with ashes, and the air stank of cloves.

  No whiskey, though. No drugs. She might even have been sober. Still, her strange, tense expression unnerved me. I made a quick scan for weapons. I didn’t see any, but that meant nothing.

  Holmes twitched. Her gaze swiveled around to mine.

  She took in my waterlogged appearance, the puddle at my feet. Her expression did not change, but she took the cigarette from her mouth and clicked off the radio.

  “Did you have a lovely time?”

  “I did,” I lied. “And you?”

  Sara offered me a faint smile. “No. But I have certain options to support me.”

  Drugs, definitely.

  “I’m tired,” I said. “And cold. I’m going to bed.”

  “Good idea.” Holmes leaned back and closed her eyes.

  But just as I turned toward the bedrooms, she said, “By the way, I found a fabulous new diner uptown. Best damned omelets in DC, according to the reviews. We should go there tomorrow for breakfast.”

  I shuddered at the thought. “No.”

  “But I insist,” Sara said softly. “Consider this my apology for tonight.”

  There was no apology good enough for what she had done.

  “Goddamn you, Sara—”

  She laughed. “To be sure, he or she will. But what about breakfast?”

  Clearly, she would not stop hounding me until I agreed.

  “Fine,” I said evenly. “Your treat. What time?”

  “Late. Very, very late.” She took a drag on her cigarette and blew out a scented cloud.

  I shambled off to my bedroom, trailing water as I went. Once I had closed and locked the door, I stripped off my coat and kicked off my boots. The rest of my clothes followed. There’d be hell to pay if all that water damaged the floors, but right now I didn’t care.

  I turned on the shower to its hottest setting. In a fit of caution, I locked both doors inside the bathroom, before I stepped under the needle-sharp spray. Points to Hudson Realty. They had advertised instant and unlimited hot water, and they had never failed to deliver.

  Fifteen minutes later, the cold had melted away. I turned down the heat and scrubbed my skin with the fancy ginger-scented soap that Sara had given me for Christmas. By now a dull ache had centered itself just beneath my ribs, but at least I was warm again. I shut off the shower, dressed in my pajamas, and climbed into bed.


  I should take care of Lazarus. I should swallow those pills Faith prescribed for me. I should . . .

  Holmes had switched the radio on again. The newsfeed continued its endless yammering about Donnovan, the New Confederacy, and how Congress kept flip-flopping between hard-line opposition to the peace talks and how we had to compromise for the nation’s good. Meanwhile, Richard Speiker and the Brotherhood of Redemption continued to threaten more attacks unless the Federal States met their demands.

  Their demands were breathtaking and horrifying. Close all borders with Mexico. Hand over all named conspirators. (Though that list seemed more like a list of political dissidents and people of a certain color, if you get my drift.) I wanted to think Donnovan wouldn’t concede anything to those terrorists, but these days I wasn’t too sure about the man.

  I pulled the cover over my head to shut out the radio. If only I could shut out the whole goddamned world for a few days.

  Dangerous line of thought, Watson. Don’t ignore those meds. Don’t be neglecting that shiny new arm. Come on, girl. Get up and do what you have to.

  I got up. Took my meds. Drank a full glass of water, then went through the proper drill to remove Lazarus and tend to my stump. By the time I retreated into bed once more, the radio had gone silent, but I could still hear Sara moving about the apartment. A restless Sara often took refuge in playing her piano, but not tonight. Come to think of it, not for the past three weeks. Perhaps what we had here was an obsessive Sara, not a restless one.

  Another line of thought guaranteed to keep me awake. Luckily, tomorrow was Saturday. Luckily, I had no official position on the surgery roster. I was free to sleep late, as late as I wanted.

  I want to be a surgeon again. I want two good hands. I want . . .

  I wanted another chance with Adanna Jones.

  But Adanna herself wanted complete honesty, and I couldn’t give her that. She was right, too. If we couldn’t be honest, then we had nothing at all.

  Maybe Rumi had something to say about that.

  February 28.

  My dreams tonight are embarrassingly obvious—no need for Faith Bellaume to interpret.

  We’re in an upscale wine bar, Adanna Jones and I. I don’t recognize the place, but it could be anywhere in DC. Anywhere at all, really. Glass-top tables. High stools. Too many mirrors. Lots of brass. The rumble of canned music with the bass amped up and the backbeat just a little off.

  Adanna sits across from me, a bottle of expensive Bordeaux off to one side. Our glasses are full, the bottle close to empty.

  She lifts her glass and mouths a toast I can’t hear over the throbbing bass. I touch my glass to hers.

  The moment I drink, the dream makes a jump to the left.

  Our glasses are empty, the bottle full. A fat yellow candle burns inside its glass enclosure, and the bass has turned into a ripple of piano that reminds me of Sara Holmes at her most serene, however rare those moments have been. I reach for the bottle, but Adanna intercepts me with a light touch.

  Janet, she says.

  Her glance falls down to my device. For once I don’t flinch when a stranger notices my missing arm. Perhaps because I don’t think of Adanna as a stranger. Perhaps because her expression makes no judgment. She simply sees another part of me.

  On impulse, I pull off my coat. I’m wearing a sleeveless tunic. (The outside observer, the part of me watching my dream, notes that I have no such tunic.)

  I lay my bare arm on the table, palm up. The mesh glitters in the candlelight, all silver and bright.

  Adanna glances at me, clearly asking permission.

  I nod.

  She rests her fingers on my arm, just above the wrist. I should not be able to feel her touch, but I do, and I draw a sharp breath.

  Go on, I say.

  She goes on. With a featherlight touch, she explores my arm, from the cuff where flesh meets metal, along the inner length to my elbow, and down to my wrist again. She notes the controls, hidden behind a discreet panel; the not-so-human joint at my elbow, even as it attempts to simulate the shape and bones of a human arm; the delicate wrist with the band shielding the complex electronics that allow me to twist and turn my hand.

  Then she curls her hand around mine, and her fingertips touch my palm. Mine close around hers.

  Lazarus, meet Adanna, I say. Adanna, this is Lazarus. This is part of me.

  Her gaze lifts to mine. She smiles.

  7

  The moment I woke, the entirety of yesterday tumbled into my brain.

  Christ.

  I rolled over and squinted at the alarm clock. Only seven A.M.

  I pulled the blankets over my head and tried to pretend the world didn’t exist. Except my uncooperative brain kept handing me memories of the night before. Adanna, calling me brave. Adanna’s expression wiped clean when Sara called me her love. We weren’t lovers, she and I. Neither were Adanna and I. Hell, we were barely friends. But the air had sparked with potential, or so I thought.

  Eventually, I gave up on sleep and pulled on fresh sweats and ambled into the kitchen. A loaf of banana bread sat under a glass dome, next to the coffeemaker, which had just finished brewing a fresh pot. And in case I had missed the point, someone had set out a clean mug and a note reminding me of the fresh pitcher of cream in the refrigerator.

  Someone, I thought, is just too damned clever for her own good.

  I collected a pot of coffee, the cream, and several slices of banana bread onto a tray and retreated to my bedroom. My latest acquisition from Rainbow Books was a complete set of Heather Rose Jones’s Alpennia series in trade paperback. Women as scholars. Women as scientists. Women as friends. Just what the doctor called for, I decided, as I opened up Daughter of Mystery.

  Around eleven A.M., Sara appeared in my doorway, dressed in loose faded jeans and a New York Yankees sweatshirt, and she’d gathered her locs at the nape of her neck with one of those high-tech ribbons that changed colors and patterns in reaction to sunlight and temperature.

  “Let’s go,” she said. “Don’t worry about your clothes. We’re both fine.”

  We wrapped ourselves in our down jackets and set off through a bright crisp February morning. Any frost had vanished from the sidewalks, the skies were clear, and the sun poured down from above. Sara herself appeared subdued. She walked at a steady pace, her hands stuffed into her pockets, her face strangely taut.

  “Another secret chat?” I ventured after a few blocks.

  Sara nodded.

  “Won’t they notice?”

  Her mouth twitched. “Hardly. No, let me expand upon that. My people might—scratch that, they will notice our walk and our breakfast. They will also notice I was an entitled shit last night, and that I am taking pains to make amends. I am sad to say my colleagues are so easily distracted by such maneuvers. Anyone else on my trail will likely reach the same conclusion—that ours is a personal and painful conversation.”

  So, you blundered into that restaurant and ruined—

  I stumbled. Sara caught me by the arm. I hissed and wrenched myself free.

  Damn you. Damn you, Sara Holmes.

  Except . . . if I wanted to be honest, Sara had not ruined anything. At some point, Adanna Jones would have asked a question I could not answer. At some point, we would have had the same conversation about honesty.

  I swiped my hand over my eyes, while Sara pretended not to notice.

  “What about my friend?” I said.

  “Safe.”

  I shook my head and burrowed deeper into my quilted coat, even if the weather didn’t warrant it.

  “You don’t believe me,” Sara said softly.

  “How can I?” I replied. “You play so many goddamned games, Sara. Then you whistle me up like a pied piper. You might believe I am safe. And yeah, maybe last night’s charade will keep Adanna safe. For now. But you aren’t a goddamned god or superhero.”

  She opened and closed her mouth. A strangely uncertain response. Was Sara developing a sense of
social awareness?

  “You are right,” she said at last.

  “About what?”

  “About everything, my love.”

  That casual endearment, which was anything but casual, no longer infuriated me. We were not lovers, Sara and I. We were friends, allies, companions in madness. We had offered each other trust, with certain limitations.

  “What the hell does that mean?” I asked. “Are we in danger? Is she? And are these new enemies or old ones?”

  Sara’s gaze flicked toward me, and I caught the faintest wink. “Unknown. Except there is always an enemy. No, this isn’t about the New Confederacy, at least not directly. It’s about Nadine Adler. You remember her?”

  Goddamn straight I did. The woman who had murdered my best friend, Saúl. The woman behind all those deaths in the New Civil War.

  I realized I was shivering, and not because of the winter air. “You told me she was dead. The newsfeeds had vids and articles about how she was killed in a shoot-out with government agents.”

  Vids supposedly taken by witnesses with cell phones, showing a snow-dusted street that could have been New York or New Jersey, with a SWAT team rushing toward a single anonymous figure wielding an illegal rapid-fire gun. Falling back on excuses of “national security,” the articles had danced around exactly when and where this shoot-out took place, but it had all been so very convincing.

  “I did not lie to you,” Sara said quietly. “I told you what the agency told me.”

  Which were lies, apparently. And the mainstream media had played along with those lies.

  “How did she get away?” I said.

  “She should not have. That much I can tell you.” Her tone was light, almost fey. “I’ve learned a few interesting tidbits since the agency admitted me back into the fold. There was a curious delay, back in late October. You had your interrogation, I had mine. Five days. There was push-back from upper levels before they sought a court order for our friend Adler’s arrest.”