The Hound of Justice

by Claire O'Dell

  ***

  I set my alarm for five thirty. By six thirty, I had collected a croissant and a cup of extra-strong coffee from a neighborhood shop and was sitting in the hospital cafeteria with Letova and Pascal.

  “Snob,” Pascal said as she eyed my breakfast.

  “I wish,” I replied. “But today, just today, I could not face the coffee here. Perhaps I should petition the hospital to change their menu? Think management would go for that?”

  Pascal snorted. Letova smiled and shook her head. Then her cell blinked with a notification. She frowned at the screen. “Gotta go, Doctors. Duty calls.”

  “Same here,” Pascal said, as she drank the last of her coffee. “See you at lunch, Watson?”

  “Not sure. I need to work on that abstract.”

  I waited for Pascal to leave, then ducked around the corner, where I texted Hernandez, asking for a private interview.

  The reply came back immediately: Of course. 10 a.m. Confirm with Liza.

  I tapped the lock button on my cell and leaned against the wall. This game of spies was proving far too easy. How long before I made a mistake? How long before the FBI or CIA caught up with us?

  I tapped a message to Liza to confirm my interview, then headed off to morning rounds.

  ***

  One week ago, I had reported to Esma Hernandez’s office, only to find two government agents waiting for me. They had not outright accused me of any crime, but they had insinuated and implied and asked any number of questions they had no right or reason to ask. And Hernandez had stood by, her only concern about the hospital’s reputation.

  Today we faced each other with smiles, but I could tell the memory of that interrogation was as fresh with her as it was with me.

  “Dr. Watson,” she said. “Coffee? Tea?”

  “Coffee, please,” I said. “If it’s no trouble.”

  Within moments, one of the office minions returned with a tray with a carafe, two cups, and various containers of sugar and cream. Hernandez politely waited until I had stirred cream into my coffee and drunk a few sips. “Is this about the conference?” she asked.

  Had I imagined that flicker of eagerness?

  “No, this is a personal matter,” I said. “My grandmother has Alzheimer’s. Her condition is getting worse. I’d like to take a month’s leave, so I can visit and look into proper care for her.”

  Hernandez nodded. “Not a problem. Of course, you need to attend to your family. How soon do you need to this leave to start?”

  “As soon as possible. Friday would be best.”

  I had been worried she would refuse. Worse, I had worried that she would remind me I had no regular duties, and perhaps I needn’t return. But Hernandez merely commented that my absence would present no difficulties, though she hoped I could return before the month was over.

  We discussed the details of my absence—whether Chong or Bekker required mentoring during the interim, and if so, who might be the best surgeon to take them on. How the leave affected pay and seniority, not to mention the date for my transition to full-time surgeon.

  The dance of politics finished, Hernandez shook my hand and turned me over to her assistant to handle all the electronic forms for my leave of absence. By the time we had finished, and Liza had forwarded copies to my account, I was more than ready to escape into my own office.

  ***

  Time for the next step. I opened my exclusive signed copy of Trail of Echoes to Micha’s instruction page. Press the dots in the margin, she said. I did.

  The ink on the page appeared to shimmer. I stared, breath held, as the three paragraphs of close-written text dissolved into a murky gray blob. The cloud of ink faded back into the paper. A new set of paragraphs had appeared in its place.

  By now, you have requested and received a leave of absence. This in turn should deflect any suspicions about your sudden desire to travel south. (Unless, of course, our fine government agents decide to question you more closely.) If at any time you believe our game has been discovered, please take the usual precautions to destroy these instructions.

  Way to make a girl feel all warm and cozy, I thought, trying to imagine that moment when FBI agents would take me into custody. Would I have enough warning to press those three dots in the upper right corner? Even if I did, would those same agents simply lock me away and interrogate me with drugs?

  First step, do not worry. A difficult task, but I have faith in you.

  I snorted. But strangely enough, my anxiety did ease. I read on.

  Now, down to business. Call your family in Georgia . . .

  What followed was a set of instructions that were just detailed enough, but not so much that I felt overwhelmed. Nothing I couldn’t have figured out on my own, but for once I was glad to have a commanding officer in this mission. We were to explain my absence, lay down an electronic trail from DC to Georgia. Arrange for my path to cross Micha’s.

  While we save the world, I thought with a smile.

  The last paragraph included a reminder that more instructions would follow, and I should use the established method and location to retrieve them. Oh, that was clever. Clever but simple. This was like following footprints through a dark and windblown desert, with the prints vanishing behind, while my flashlight could only illuminate a few steps ahead.

  I scrolled through my list of contacts until I came to one for my Aunt Jemele. The phone rang three times, before it clicked over.

  “Whatsup?”

  A girl’s voice, high and breathless. In the background came the clatter of pots. A woman called out, “Tamika! What did I tell you about manners, girl?”

  Tamika huffed impatiently, but then she did say, “Watson family residence. May I help you?”

  Oh, how those phrases and that accent brought back memories of my own parents, training me and Grace in manners. “Hello, Tamika,” I said. “I’d like to talk with Aunt Jemele, please. If she has the time, that is.”

  Tamika huffed again, and I thought I could hear the sound of her eyes rolling. “Oh, sure. We all gots plenty of time.” But then, before her mother scolded again, she quickly added, “I’ll fetch her right away. May I ask who’s calling?”

  “I’m Cousin Janet from up north.”

  “Oh.” Silence. “You.”

  A world of backstory in that silence.

  “Lemme go fetch her.”

  A babble of voices broke out on the other end of the line. I could make out Tamika’s excited announcement about Cousin Dr. Janet, and her mother’s harried reply about washing up the dishes. Then a soft voice said, “Janet? This is Jemele. What happened? What’s wrong?”

  I rubbed the bridge of my nose. This is my own damned fault.

  “Nothing is wrong,” I said. “Grace told me about Gramma.”

  There was a moment of uncomfortable silence before she spoke.

  “What I hear is that she told you about Gramma a while back.”

  That soft voice had taken on an edge. I wanted to tell my aunt I’d spent last year in the army, or the hospital, or trying to piece my life and my body back together. I wanted to tell her about Alton. But that would only be making excuses, and excuses, as my mother said, never made up for anything.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I want to come down for a few days. Maybe go visit those home care services Grace was telling me about. See which one’s the best. But only after I talk to you and Gramma.”

  That provoked a longer silence.

  “Maybe you could,” she said slowly. “When you thinking to come down?”

  “This week?” I said.

  Jemele laughed. “Oh, girl, you haven’t changed, have you? All don’t care until you do, then you want to save the world. Well, fine. Let me know when to expect you. We’ll see what we can do.”

  Our good-byes were short but friendly enough. It was only after I set my cell down that I realized how much my throat hurt.

  I’m lying to my family. Never mind it’s for the best of reasons. Reasons are like
excuses in a better dress.

  Enough self-pity. I had two more calls to make.

  “Hudson Realty.”

  Jenna Hudson’s voice was cool and remote, as if she’d read the caller ID and was prepared for an unpleasant conversation.

  “Jenna, hello,” I said. “I have a request. My grandmother down in Georgia needs special care. I want to visit the area to make arrangements for her. Would you consider extending my lease another two months?”

  An uncomfortable silence followed, during which I tried to calculate what came next if she refused.

  “That’s understandable,” she said at last.

  I didn’t mistake that for concern or generosity. But I thanked her politely and she offered best wishes to me and my family. She would send me an updated lease with the new end date by email, and I was to sign and return it before I left DC.

  One last item, the easiest of all.

  “Hello, Southeast Airlines?”

  I booked the first available flight to Atlanta, Georgia, that Friday. Turns out Southeast was running a special because so many people didn’t want to bother with security, never mind the cramped seats and extra fees. Fifty dollars for advance seating. Twenty-five dollars per checked bag. Another twenty-five dollars if I wanted a second carry-on. For an extra hundred dollars, I could sit in the Economy Plus section.

  In a fit of extravagance, I chose business class and punched in my credit card number, followed by my passport and driver’s license numbers. I clicked the check box that acknowledged I would report two hours early for an interview with the TSA, or I would forfeit any right to rebooking if I missed my flight. After that, navigating the rental car site was simplicity itself.

  I flipped Hall’s mystery open and reviewed Micha’s instructions one last time. In the last hour a new paragraph had materialized.

  If you are rereading this page, you know what to do. My advice? Wait another day or two, until you are certain you are ready to proceed.

  I decided I wasn’t ready to proceed. Not today.

  ***

  Five P.M. Afternoon rounds brought nothing more challenging than a septic ulcer, aggravated by aspirin and moonshine. Once I returned to my office, I sent off messages to Sydney and Faith Bellaume, canceling my sessions for the next four weeks. Sydney replied with a GIF of balloons, whatever that meant. Faith sent me a cryptic message saying that she trusted my judgment.

  Wednesday. A day even emptier than usual. Carter offered to take on my students. Navarette gave me a hug and said she would miss me at rounds, and I better damned not go haring off to another hospital. Pascal said all the right things, but she was clearly distracted. Her daughter, Navarette said, had come down with pneumonia and both mothers were anxious. As for Letova, she was nowhere to be found.

  A part of me was relieved. A part wondered if anyone would notice if I never returned.

  ***

  Thursday night. I vaguely remember eating a carton of Chinese takeout in between packing my carry-on bag and double-checking my to-do list. Tickets, boarding pass, and car reservation downloaded to my cell. Check. Copies printed as a backup. Check. Federal ID, driver’s license, and passport. Check. The email from my aunt with exact directions to the farm, since the GPS wasn’t reliable. All the rest of my obligations tied off as neatly as a surgeon might tie off a bleeding vein.

  I tidied up the kitchen, then poured myself a glass of red wine and read through Micha’s letter a second time. I could—almost—believe our mission was a simple matter. We would sail across the border, she and I, and make our rendezvous with Sara Holmes, after which I would perform whatever necessary task Sara required of me. Ours would be an effortless victory, because our cause was just, and Micha was gifted with ingenuity.

  But life with Sara had taught me to expect danger and complication. Maybe this time I would take a bullet to my head instead of my back. Maybe this time, I would not survive the adventure.

  I set the wineglass on the kitchen counter, grabbed my warmest jacket from the closet, and headed down the stairs. The night was cool, the stars bright pinpricks overhead. The sensible part of me was yammering for me to stop this foolishness right now. Sadly, I wasn’t listening to Sensible Me. I walked—quickly, but not so quickly someone might get suspicious—until I reached Wisconsin, then I jogged the rest of the way to Thirty-Fourth Street and Adanna Jones’s bookstore.

  The OPEN sign glowed a soft white. Within, a blurred figure moved from one side of the store toward the register. Before I could second-guess myself, I pushed the door open and stepped inside.

  Adanna Jones stood behind the cash register, scanning a dense display of numbers and codes on the screen. As the door swung closed behind me, she glanced up with a polite smile. Immediately her expression turned wary. “Janet.”

  “Adanna, I—” I gulped down a breath and tried again. “Hello. I—I’ve come for a good word.”

  Silence. I desperately wanted to explain. Knew I couldn’t, even if I hadn’t been constrained by so many secrets. We stared at each other, and I was certain she would order me to leave.

  But then her mouth tucked into an unhappy smile. “What’s wrong?”

  Not exactly a welcome, but better than I hoped.

  “I’m leaving DC for a few weeks,” I said. “My grandmother is ill. She has Alzheimer’s. There’s home care services, but . . .” I shook my head, dismissing the rest of my explanation. “Whatever. I’m going to see what I can do.”

  Her expression eased, just barely. “And you came here for a book to tide you along?”

  It was an excuse she offered. I should have said yes. I should have accepted her recommendation, handed over my credit card, laid yet another track for this electronic trail Micha had planned.

  I cannot tell you all the truth, but at least I won’t lie.

  “No. I don’t need a book,” I said softly. “I came . . . to ask if you would keep me in your thoughts. Please. Nothing more.”

  Her eyes went wide. Her hands went still above the register’s keyboard. So many, many questions in that one glance. As much as I wanted to explain everything, yes, even about Sara and the New Confederacy, I knew I would sound like a madwoman.

  Then she leaned across the counter and touched my cheek. “I shall do that. Be well, my friend. Be well.”

  13

  My flight didn’t leave until eleven A.M., but regulations stated I had to check in with the front counter by nine A.M. After a quick breakfast, I packed my last few items and left the dirty dishes for Hudson Realty’s cleaning service. Glory be, my cab was waiting for me at the curb.

  For once, DC traffic cooperated. I reached the Southeast check-in line by eight thirty, and the counter itself by eight fifty-five.

  “Name, destination, and ID, please.”

  “Janet Watson,” I said. “Atlanta, Georgia.”

  I presented my e-ticket, passport, and boarding pass. The clerk glanced over them with a weary expression. “Reason for travel?”

  We’d come a long way since the paranoia of the late 2010s but not far enough. Alida Sanches had rolled back the travel bans and other restrictions, but anyone traveling by air had to run a gauntlet of questions. Anyone who had the wrong color, or clothes, or accent, had to go through that and more.

  “It’s a family matter,” I said as patiently as I could manage. “My grandmother is ill. She needs help.”

  The counter clerk nodded, as if she understood.

  “There’s just one more thing,” I said.

  Behind me, I heard a sigh as someone calculated whether they would make their flight after all. Sorry, not sorry. I had confirmed with the airline that my device was permitted on board, but I knew better than to trust a phone conversation.

  I laid my left arm onto the counter and rolled back my sleeve to expose Lazarus. “I have a medical device,” I stated clearly. “This device is both necessary for my profession as a surgeon and permitted under the federal regulations for disabled citizens.”

  I nearly
recited the regulation number and paragraph, but the clerk was clearly not hearing anything I said. “Do you have a medical note?” she said.

  “No. It’s not required.”

  She eyed me doubtfully. “I’m not sure. We do require advance notice.”

  I pointed out on my ticket the notation. “Which I have complied with.”

  Even so, she continued to frown. “It’s a matter for TSA.”

  I drew a breath, ready to argue. Stopped myself in time. Arguing only made them more suspicious. I gave the clerk a false and cheery smile. “Thank you. I appreciate your concern. I won’t take any more of your time.”

  Her relief was almost embarrassing. She returned my passport and federal ID, tapped the keys to update my boarding pass, and gave me a printed certificate noting I had cooperated with pre-boarding regulations.

  On my way to the departure gate, I stopped by a restroom. I hung my bag over the hook inside the stall and extracted my book, and those last instructions, before I launched myself into the impossible. I reviewed the current set once more, then pressed the margin as hard as I could.

  The ink faded and reassembled into a new set of paragraphs.

  Well done, my friend. Here are your final instructions before we meet again:

  Once you land in Georgia, proceed to your family farm. Make whatever excuses you must but do acquire that list of home services from your aunt.

  If at all possible, arrange to spend the night at your family’s house, but if an invitation does not appear, go to the Best Western in Auburn. Avoid the stilted dialog and go with your instincts. Failing that, go with whatever seems easiest.

  Whatever transpires tonight, clothe yourself in the armor of righteousness on the next morn, and continue to the Waffle House outside Montgomery, Alabama.

  And now, if you are certain you wish to continue this adventure, and even if you aren’t, take the next step as always. WARNING: Bright lights ahead.