The Hound of Justice

by Claire O'Dell

  My blithering state must have been obvious, but Jones was kind enough not to smile. “Rumi is one of my favorites,” she said. “His words make sense for, oh, so many reasons. If you liked the book, I could recommend another. Stop by the store tomorrow. Or whenever you have time, of course.”

  I finally took control of my tongue.

  “Tomorrow, yes,” I said. “I have the time.”

  Her smile was kind and gentle, as if she could read my thoughts but didn’t judge me for them.

  “Then I shall see you tomorrow. Unless . . . Tonight is my six-month anniversary with the store. Would you like to help me celebrate?”

  Oh.

  “Yes,” I said, my voice almost breathless. “Yes, I would like that.”

  5

  * * *

  FRIDAY, FEBRUARY 6. Early morning edition.

  Last night I had dinner with Adanna Jones.

  Let us pause a moment to consider the implications.

  Or not. The night we met in the coffee shop, we had our glass of wine to celebrate Adanna’s store and its first six months. Before the second glass, we decided we ought to meet again. Thursday night was the most convenient, we agreed. Not Friday or Saturday—those were reserved for serious dates. Not Monday, because Monday said, I can’t be bothered. Thursday, then, was almost Friday. It was me saying, I’m interested. And her saying back, Me too, but let’s take it casual.

  So here I am, Ms. Casual, awake an hour before the alarm goes off, drinking coffee in my bedroom and scribbling down a bunch of messy emotions.

  (Messy emotions. Redundant, that.)

  (I see I’m avoiding the point again.)

  (Will parentheses be my downfall?)

  Anyway. Back to last night.

  We met up at her bookstore at seven thirty. Nice and neutral. Practical, too. I could walk there from the hospital, and Adanna could keep the store open until I showed up. We’d agreed to have a glass of wine at a wine bar around the corner, then take a cab to a Caribbean hole-in-the-wall that Adanna knew.

  One glass each of overpriced white Bordeaux. Chitchat about the weather and what the hell President Donnovan meant about bringing the country together.

  * * *

  I set my pen down and leaned against the enormous fluffy pillows, one of the first things I treated myself with from my new Georgetown paycheck. Outside, gray clouds muffled the skies, and the baseboard heater ticked a monotonous rhythm, while sleet tapped against the windows. Lucky thing I could afford a taxi if I wanted. No more trudging from bus to Metro stop, my body braced against the cold.

  If I had never met Sara Holmes, if I had never followed her into adventure, would I have met Adanna Jones?

  Pointless speculation. I had met Sara, there in front of Dalí’s Last Supper. I had followed her to 2809 Q Street and into adventure. And one reward of that adventure had been a position at Georgetown, which in turn had led indirectly to last night.

  I sighed, picked up the pen. Considered what next to write.

  What Sara’s colleagues would later read.

  That had been another consequence of our adventures last year, which Sara had made very clear the other day. We could not expect any privacy, she and I. Her chief would monitor Sara through her own implants and the recording devices in our apartment. I expected they would keep a watch on me as well. They’d rifled through my life once already.

  Finish the entry, I told myself. Otherwise it looks suspicious.

  * * *

  One glass led to two. Just enough for my stomach to unknot. By this time, a tide of DC’s wealthy lobbyists had invaded the wine bar. Adanna rolled her eyes. I smothered a laugh. Let’s go, I said. I’m hungry. So am I, she said.

  The hole-in-the-wall was a place called Jammin Kitchen, between Jefferson and Ingraham. No reservations, but Adanna knew the cook’s sister, and we only had to wait twenty minutes for our table by the kitchen doors. She ordered pelau, I ordered callaloo. The waitress brought us two bottles of Red Stripe without our asking. Good call, that.

  * * *

  Another pause. The skies were lighter now. My alarm clock had flipped over to six A.M. Morning rounds didn’t start until seven thirty A.M., but I liked to show up early to review the patients’ charts. Best finish this one up soon.

  * * *

  She asked about my job. I told her the basics. Lost an arm in the New Civil War. Came to DC to argue with the VA for a new device. Got one, along with a job offer from Georgetown.

  * * *

  A masterpiece of editing, I thought. No mention of the dead veterans. No mention of Adler Industries, and how they—how Nadine Adler—had used our soldiers for profit. Sara’s colleagues would have no complaint about what I told Adanna Jones.

  * * *

  When it was her turn, Adanna talked about growing up in Chicago and attending university to study literature. She’d married young, to an equally young man, both of them clearly not ready for commitment. After they divorced, she moved from state to state along the East Coast until she landed in DC. She’d worked in bookstores while she got her MBA, then longer until she saved enough to open her own store. She was making enough to get by, she said, but there were times she wanted to chuck it all and go live on a farm.

  No, you don't, I told her right back, and talked about growing up on a dirt farm in Georgia, and how my parents had to save for years before we could move up north.

  * * *

  Our conversation had dried up for a while. Adanna finished off her pelau. I thought about ordering another Red Stripe. We were in that stage between ordinary talk strangers used and something that might tip over into the personal.

  Then I brought up the subject of books. There, there was something we could both talk about all day and night long. SF. Romance. Literary. Political thrillers. Stories about men and women. About women and women. Stories about black women, in whatever genre you chose. I ordered that second Red Stripe; so did Adanna. The waitress cleared away our plates and brought us a dessert menu that we ignored.

  “All books are political,” Adanna said.

  “Don’t I know it.”

  Her gaze swept up. I had the sudden strong realization that her hand lay close to mine—the one of flesh, that is. But Adanna had never once flinched away from Lazarus. She had taken me in, all of me, without any sign of disgust or false sympathy.

  Oh, oh, oh.

  My chest went tight. My throat turned dry.

  I had no idea how long we stared at each other. Eventually, I remembered to breathe.

  “It’s late,” I said. “I should go.”

  Adanna smiled. Her fingers brushed mine. “I hope to see you again soon.”

  My nerves still buzzed with remembrance of that moment. But no, I refused to record those emotions for the FBI or anyone else. I dipped my pen into the ink pot, tapped away the excess, and finished off the entry.

  * * *

  Talk about Georgia led to talk about families. Brothers and sisters. Cousins and aunts. I told her about my grandmother and how she had argued against my parents’ moving north. She told me about her stepmother in New York telling her how DC was a bad place for a black woman who wanted to run her own business. Bullshit, Adanna had said, and proved her wrong.

  We both had a good time, I think. Maybe I’ll see her again. I’d like that.

  * * *

  There, entry finished. It might also be plausible.

  Sara had taught me well, after all. How to admit the facts, while hiding the truth.

  I blew on the ink until it dried, then put away my journal and writing supplies. Six twenty A.M. Plenty of time to get ready for work. But my hands lingered over the journal, as I thought about how much I had not written.

  Dear Journal, I thought. Dear minions of the federal government. If you think this is another one of those true-love confessionals, think again, sunshine.

  No. And I wish.

  Maybe.

  6

  Friday at last. The day had started off cold and
dark and dreary, the sidewalks slick with frost. By the time I stopped in the cafeteria after morning rounds for a cup of coffee, the skies had cleared, and sunlight poured through the windows. I paused a moment to savor the view. The whole month of February had been one big pile of cold and sleet, a month of snarled traffic and more than the usual accidents, which had brought us more than the usual number of patients.

  But at last the weather had broken. At last I could glimpse what might be the turn of seasons.

  Because at last it was Friday.

  Because tonight—tonight—I had a genuine Friday night date with Adanna Jones.

  We’d made our cautious dance through the days of the weeks, from that first auspicious Thursday, to a meet-up the next Tuesday for a coffee, to tonight. A Friday, with all its implications.

  “What has you all distracted today?”

  Navarette stood next to me with her own cup of miserable coffee. Her mouth was tilted in a mischievous smile, as though she’d been reading along with my thoughts and emotions.

  “I am not distracted,” I said with dignity. “I am merely deep in thought.”

  “Yeah, right. How come you didn’t school me during rounds?”

  Oh. Damn.

  I went for the casual shrug, but Navarette was having none of that. “Spill, my friend. You have that dazed and silly look of a woman in love—”

  “Not in love—”

  She snapped her fingers. “Knew it! Letova and Pascal both owe me ten dollars. They were all, Oh, Watson is so damned serious all the time. She’s not flighty like you, Navarette. As if I were flighty, but that’s another subject. Come on. Let’s have a sit-down and you can tell me all about this woman.”

  “I can’t,” I said. “I have OT with Sydney in fifteen minutes.”

  Navarette grinned. “And you need more than fifteen minutes. That tells me all I need to know.”

  I hurried away before she could say more. Part of me was outraged that Navarette and the other surgeons were betting on my love life. The rest was dismayed they had even guessed I had a love life.

  And dare I call it that yet?

  My mood, my lovely hopeful mood, drifted down to reality. A dinner date was not a love life. But it was a possibility, I argued back. One date could lead to another, to other, more casual encounters in the park, with the cherry blossoms like vivid stars against the bright green of the Mall. After that, well, we’d see.

  ***

  The moment I entered Sydney’s domain, I stopped in surprise.

  Is that . . . ?

  A portable operating table stood in the center of the room—a basic model, with a flat padded surface and divided into two sections that could be raised or lowered. Next to it was a shiny metal stand, complete with surgical gloves, mask and head covering, and an array of instruments. A sterile sheet draped a figure on the operating table.

  And yes, it was a body lying there. I would recognize that special stillness of death anywhere.

  Sydney grinned at me from behind her worktable.

  “Surprise!” she said cheerfully. “It’s official eval time.”

  My heart thumped hard against my chest. Sure, I’d been arguing for weeks for just this moment, but the second or third time Sydney refused, I’d given up, especially after my so-called conversation with Allison Carter.

  Ono slithered into view from behind the worktable and shot me a yellow-eyed glare. I gave the cat my best glare in return. She sniffed, as near a smirk as any cat could manage. Now that we had our hellos over with, Ono retreated to her cushion in the corner.

  Sydney had watched this with her own smirk. “Well? Where are the cries of joy? Girl, you’ve been angsting all over the place, telling me you ought to get an official eval, since I don’t know when. What’s wrong? Changed your mind?”

  “No, but . . . Am I ready?”

  “You damn well should be,” Sydney replied. But her voice was gentler than her words. “Let’s take things slowly, and we’ll find out.”

  I blew out a breath, then nodded.

  “Good.” Her manner shifted from friendly to cool and professional. “You will examine two bodies today, Dr. Watson. Two different procedures, which I will describe in detail before each one. Do not rush. I won’t be timing you today. Right is better than fast, as you damn well know.”

  I did know that.

  And at least no one dies if I happen to make a mistake.

  “Who is the first patient?” I said. “What is the procedure?”

  Sydney tapped on her virtual keyboard, then made a notation with her electronic pen. A luminous square appeared in the center of the table.

  “May Tillerson,” she said. “An eighty-seven-year-old diabetic with a history of ignoring her meds. Cause of death, diabetic ketoacidosis. Her daughter reported that Ms. Tillerson appeared to be in distress the previous day. She did show signs of improvement by nightfall, but the next morning, she began to vomit. The daughter immediately called for an ambulance. She was brought straight into the ICU, where the doctors put her on IV, but she died that same day.”

  I could read the data between the lines. Tillerson had ignored her meds one time too many. Shock, exhaustion, the body old and tired. Perhaps the daughter might have argued her mother into going to the hospital earlier . . . But no, second guesses were useless at best.

  “Why is she here?” I asked. “And what is the procedure?”

  Sydney’s expression flickered, but only for a moment. Was that approval? I couldn’t tell.

  “She is here because she wished to donate her body to the medical school. Her granddaughter is a student at Georgetown. The procedure . . .” And here Sydney referred once more to her virtual screen. “You are to open the patient’s abdomen. You will examine the organs and report your findings. Then you will close the body.”

  Simple enough, or it would have been, if I’d had two real hands.

  Lazarus is my real hand. Sydney told me so often enough.

  Telling was a helluva lot easier than believing. Ignoring Lazarus for now, I folded back the sheet from May Tillerson’s body.

  She was gaunt, her skin limp and folded around her bones, as though her muscles had evaporated. Her flesh, when I touched it, was cold but pliable.

  “I’m not exactly a medical student,” I said.

  “Don’t worry. We have a signed release from her daughter.”

  “Her organs are not suitable for transplant.”

  No answer given, none needed.

  “Her pathology might be useful, however.”

  “It might,” Sydney replied. “However, today’s procedure will not undo that.”

  Meaning, Get on with it, Doctor, and don’t screw up the procedure.

  I tapped the sequence on my device for extra-sensitive feedback. Though I’d run through a dozen or more drills at this setting, I was still not immune to the strange sensations that crawled up the length of my prosthesis. After a count of ten, the sensation registered as pressure and the cold touch of a metal instrument.

  (Is that possible? It must be, because the chill flows up my metal arm and into my flesh.)

  Next, I pulled on the mask and head covering, then opened the sterile pack for the scrub brush and scrubbed my right hand and arm thoroughly in the sink. After that came the electron-beam sterilizer unit for Lazarus. Once I’d satisfied protocol, I drew on the pair of surgical gloves.

  My right hand found the permanent marker on the tray. I drew a line below the rib cage and around the right side of the abdomen. Sydney had not dictated which organs to extract, or what observations to make. No doubt she only wanted to see if I could cut a straight line.

  —even if that flesh was cold and stiff and—

  I set the marker off to one side and was about to start the incision when Sydney interrupted me.

  “Left hand, please,” she said.

  Of course. I had to prove I could operate with either hand.

  I shifted the scalpel to my left hand and pressed down into th
e doughy flesh. I’d not dissected a body since medical school, and I’d forgotten how the skin and body resisted the knife’s edge. I pressed harder. The skin split and divided.

  By now, the training from medical school and my residency took control. I cut a second and third slice through Tillerson’s abdomen and lifted away the flap of flesh. Lazarus performed as expected, with crisp precise motions.

  The organs had the appearance I expected from an elderly woman with numerous medical complications. However, I took no shortcuts. I examined the intestines, the kidneys, the condition of her liver. I gave a running commentary as I worked, which Sydney recorded on her workstation.

  Then, my examination complete, I replaced the organs and closed the body. While Sydney tapped on her keyboard, I stripped off my gloves and laid them on the tray with the instruments. If I’d been in an operating theater, the nurses would have taken away the instruments and gloves, while I added my own final observations about the patient into the nearby audio recording device.

  Sydney tapped a combination off to one side. The virtual keyboard and display went dim but did not vanish completely. Her expression was difficult to read. Deliberately so, I decided.

  “Ready for patient number two?” she asked finally.

  “Ready,” I replied.

  Sydney wheeled the operating table through the side door and returned with a second table and a second body, draped and covered as before. Another trip and she brought another stand with a fresh set of instruments and gloves.

  Once again, I scrubbed and sterilized and pulled on fresh gloves. Before I removed the sheet, I studied the blank figure before me. My second patient was a much smaller person. Not a child, but not yet an adult.

  “Her name was Tyonna Clarke,” Sydney said. “Fourteen years old. She came to us originally on January twentieth.”