The Hound of Justice

by Claire O'Dell

  Medicine and . . .

  Surgery and . . .

  Ethics and . . .

  All these were bullshit feel-good titles. I was done feeling good. Maybe it was time for honesty.

  Without giving myself a chance to second-guess, I cleared the document and typed, The Politics of Medicine.

  Whew. Talk about honest. That topic went far beyond honest into reckless. Hernandez would never approve anything with politics in the title, no matter how hard she played the political game.

  Fuck it. I don’t care.

  An hour later, I had the bare bones of a presentation. I scanned through the text, a thousand words guaranteed to destroy my career, or make me famous. Maybe both. What would Hernandez say? Could she say anything? The deadline was midnight tomorrow.

  I tweaked a few words, rearranged a few phrases. Sucked on my teeth.

  “Jaaaaaanet! Whatcha doin’?”

  Tamika pounded at my bedroom door.

  “Holy shit, girl. Ain’t you got no manners?”

  Tamika took that as an invitation and flung the door open. “Betty had her kittens. You said you wanted to see them.”

  Her hair was sticking out in corkscrews and her grin was brighter than the moon. The girl had told me a few days ago that she wanted to design video games. Aunt Mattie wasn’t sure they had the money. I’d spent some time wondering if Ekene Nkiru’s promise extended to my cousins. Then I’d decided, Why not, and sent a message to my nameless guard to forward on. I was still waiting on a reply.

  “Maybe I do,” I told Tamika. “But maybe I need to finish off this paper.”

  Tamika huffed. “Better not take too long.”

  She banged the door shut with all the impatience of a fourteen-year-old.

  I laughed, as I’d thought I could not, until laughter gave way to tears. Bless her heart, dear Lord, and bless it in all the best ways.

  I scanned over the text of my proposal and decided it was as done as could be. I hit Send and followed Tamika down the stairs.

  24

  May 30. A bright sunny day in Washington, DC. The cherry blossoms had scattered their petals over the Mall. The air felt more like midsummer than late spring, with a hint of August’s coming heat, but here in 2809 Q Street, the air conditioner hummed, and the sweat evaporated from my skin.

  I set my right thumb to the apartment’s bio-identity pad. The security light flickered green, the lock clicked open. I am not ready for this.

  I took a firm grip on my bag and walked into apartment 2B.

  And stopped, sucker punched by memory.

  Oh god, this lovely refuge, this gift of beauty and peace, which had not changed one whit since April. The exquisite marble archway, the scent of wood polish, the whiff of roses and wildflowers drifting up from the garden and through the latticed windows. I remembered . . .

  I remembered the moment when Jenna Hudson opened the door and welcomed me inside. (For some definition of welcome.) I remembered—fuck, what a stupid memory—how astonished I’d been by all the closets. And then the moment when Sara Holmes smiled at me and said, It’s not as expensive as you think.

  I blew out a breath and continued along the interior corridor toward my bedroom.

  More memories stirred up, like dust motes in the sun. Sara’s bedroom, now entirely empty, without even a bed or her piano. The so-called astonishing closets, which stared down at me with blank eyes. My own bedroom looked unchanged, or near enough. My books remained in the bookshelves cataloged by my own idiosyncratic system. Someone had made my bed with fresh linens, however, and mail covered the table next to the window.

  I dumped my bag on the bed and kicked off my shoes. Wandered past the windows, where I deliberately paid no attention to the stranger in the alleyway. That would be my own personal bodyguard, who had taken over my car on the drive to the airport, then accompanied me back to Dulles. Even when she’d dropped out of sight, I had the subtle persistent sense of others, that invisible perimeter guard, which didn’t vanish even after I closed the doors to 2809 Q.

  They will guard you until we know you are safe, Ekene Nkiru had promised me.

  Odd how I found that not the least bit comforting.

  Reluctantly, I returned to my desk. Hudson Realty had faithfully collected my mail, as requested, and left it in half a dozen neat piles. Most bills and receipts came through email or payment feeds, but enough paper receipts still showed up, mixed in with local political flyers and cheap ads from car dealers. The result wasn’t exactly towering, but daunting enough. I poured myself a double shot of whiskey, courtesy of a last-minute purchase at Dulles airport, then settled down to business.

  Paper receipt for my student loan. File. Credit card offer of dubious origin. Toss. Three, count them, three flyers from a “local neighborhood association” asking me to support their “quality initiative.” Oh, golly. That sounds like we got us a new dog whistle. Toss, toss, and toss. What’s this?

  Three oversize manila envelopes addressed to Occupant, and each with a sticker reading, Complimentary Sample Issue. Huh. What kind of mailing list had I landed on?

  An eclectic one, apparently. The first envelope yielded a copy of Essence magazine, the February issue, complete with a glossy cover. The second contained a recent copy of National Review and a letter offering me a discount if I subscribed to Vintage Publications before the end of the month.

  One of these is not like the other, I thought as I opened the third envelope. And what will we find here? A copy of the Wall Street Journal?

  Almost. The third envelope contained a copy of the Washington Post, printed on clean bright paper, clearly not the usual newsfeed printer garbage. I smoothed out the front page and nearly fainted in shock.

  MAY 31. SIX SENATORS INDICTED IN CONSPIRACY CHARGES.

  That’s tomorrow.

  Very casually, aware that my every move was recorded, I glanced at the metered mail stamp on the envelope. May 29. Yesterday. Someone had obtained a very early copy. Or someone had created this issue especially for me.

  Micha? If she had survived. If—

  I rifled through the pages and pretended to scan the articles, but it took me another few moments before the words made sense.

  May 31. Rumors swirl around Adler Industries and its primary research branch, Livvy Pharmaceuticals, recently implicated in a scandal involving illicit drug testing of Federal soldiers.

  Not exactly what happened, but close enough.

  Ex-CEO Nadine Adler, once believed killed in a shoot-out with federal agents, has been reported as a coconspirator with extremist faction the Brotherhood of Redemption in January’s Bloody Inauguration, which resulted in dozens being killed and hundreds more critically injured. According to unnamed government sources, the attack was merely a prelude to an assassination plot involving key members of Congress.

  For a moment I had to close my eyes and breathe steadily, never mind what the cameras saw. Ekene Nkiru had not lied. She had brought Dr. Salmah Sa’id safely to DC, to people in authority who could hear her testimony and see that justice was done. Sara’s death was not in vain.

  But oh, Sara, is it enough?

  I wanted nothing more than to take a long nap, to hide from the world and my memories, but I continued to read, knowing that these pages had been smuggled into this apartment to give me . . . closure of sorts. Several more paragraphs detailed the conspiracy, the formal denunciation by the New Confederacy government, and the intimation that Nadine Adler had died at the hands of the Brotherhood when she had failed to deliver the promised revolution.

  Then came the meat of the article.

  Attorney General Jeremy Wade announced a special counsel to investigate possible corruption charges in the Senate, FBI, and CIA. Special Counsel Robert White has collected a number of talented and experienced legal minds to assist with his investigation. To this date, the DOJ has brought indictments against six ranking senators and two key intelligence officials. Charges include conspiracy against the government, to destabil
ize the Federal States in advance of the proposed peace talks with the New Confederacy. The chief witness for the prosecution is Dr. Salmah Sa’id, a former employee of Livvy Pharmaceuticals, who provided evidence connecting the events of the Bloody Inauguration to Adler and the Brotherhood.

  No surprises there. Even so, I was not prepared for the final paragraph.

  . . . The most shocking surprise came when the special prosecutor charged two surgeons from Georgetown University Hospital with murder and attempted murder as part of that same conspiracy. Agents took Dr. Allison Carter into custody late Monday night. Carter, who has been held without bail, admitted to holding more than one conversation with several members of the medical community who were sympathetic to the Confederate cause. One of those named was Dr. Nina Letova, a resident at Georgetown University Hospital. Dr. Letova was discovered dead in her apartment by law enforcement officials. Her death has been ruled a suicide.

  The newspaper slipped out of my fingers and slithered onto the floor. Pick it up, my brain told me. Act naturally. Remember the cameras . . .

  Fuck the FBI and their cameras. Fuck Ekene Nkiru. And fuck the goddamned Brotherhood and whoever was pouring money into their cause.

  I had believed all the danger to be across the border. But while I lay comfortable in my grandmother’s house, writing those fine words about medicine and politics, my friend Nina had taken her own life.

  By now I was weeping. Why, oh why? Why did you do such a thing?

  Because I knew exactly what she had done. She had operated on victims of the bombing, on children brought in for emergency procedures, and she had deliberately inserted poisonous packets while pretending to honor her oath to her patients.

  I wanted—desperately—to believe that Carter had blackmailed her. That she felt she had no choice. Except she wasn’t someone bound by impossible conditions. Not her, not a qualified surgeon at a well-respected hospital. Though the Post didn’t mention names, I knew the patients. She had wept after each one. She had gone on to murder more.

  Sara was dead, but I could honestly mourn her, my friend, the Hound of Justice.

  Not Nina. Maybe later, I could separate the woman who once cared so deeply about her patients from the woman who inserted those deadly packets.

  Or not. I’ll think about that later. I’m too angry right now.

  I wiped more tears from my eyes.

  I had believed—dear god, how hard I had believed—back in April, when Micha first told me about our mission, that we would free Sa’id and save the world.

  We had. Oh, sure, we were still a nation divided. We were still faced with a hole in the heart of our country, in spirit as well as territory. And Donnovan wasn’t the glorious light of liberty so many of us wanted. But in the end, we had stopped Nadine Adler. We had saved the Federal States from chaos.

  I just had not known how much our victory would cost.

  25

  Another day, another surgery.

  “Ready to close,” I said. “Checklist, please.”

  RN Paŧwary counted off the sponges and instruments on the tray by name, her voice clear in spite of the surgical mask. RN Tayac followed up with his own count. All their numbers matched each other and the original. No discrepancies, then. Good.

  “Suture and needle, first phase.”

  Paŧwary had the threaded needle ready, of course. I’d observed her work before. She was steady and competent, and not afraid to state an opinion. Considering her thirty years of experience, I was glad about that.

  Layer by layer, each one needing a different pattern, a different kind of suture, I stitched the incision closed. Gunshot wounds were tricky, especially ones requiring the spleen removed and part of the small intestine sliced and reconnected. In spite of all the restrictions on guns and other weapons, DC had seen an uptick in illegal firearm injuries these past few months.

  The Brotherhood?

  Or, in spite of their protestations, the New Confederacy?

  Useless speculation at this point. I focused my attention on my patient, a forty-year-old white male named Joshua Zimmerman. My left and right hands moved with my every thought, as though both were connected by nerves and muscle, and not one by electrodes and wires. Lazarus . . .

  Gone were the strange sensations I’d experienced in Oklahoma. Sydney had examined Lazarus thoroughly when I described the deadness, the heaviness. (Though I left out any mention of how I’d felt immersed in flames.) Possible electric overload, she’d said. She’d gone over and recalibrated every node, every sensor.

  Though I’d stopped thinking of my left arm as a thing apart, the name still sounded right to me, even more than before. We had both truly come back to life.

  Surgery done. Patient closed.

  I glanced toward the stats board. All vital signs good, considering. The next few hours would tell.

  “Take him to Recovery,” I said.

  Paŧwary and Tayac handed Zimmerman over to the orderlies. I blew out a deep breath and rotated my shoulders. Five hours, mostly because of the damage to the intestines.

  Chong and Bekker stood off to one side of the OR. Up in the tiny observation booth, Sydney was tapping furiously on her keyboard, no doubt making notes for our next drill session. She gave me a quick thumbs-up, which I returned. Sydney had warned me, back when Hernandez first reinstated me as a surgeon, that Hernandez had ordered her to monitor my surgeries. Just a precaution, Sydney had added.

  Precaution my fat ass.

  In truth, I had not cared. My true test had taken place weeks ago, in the fields of Oklahoma.

  Outside the OR, I peeled off my surgical costume and changed into fresh scrubs. Chong had that I’ve got questions expression that promised a vigorous debate about surgical techniques. However, a world of electronic forms and documentation awaited me, including extra treats from the DC police force. I told Chong to meet me after our shift, then headed up the stairs to my office.

  I was halfway there when my cell chimed for an incoming message.

  Please come to my office ASAP. EHernandez.

  Oh Christ. I exited the stairwell at the next landing and took the elevator to the fourth floor. As I hurried down the corridor to Hernandez’s office, a part of me was ranting under my breath, about how I had fulfilled every goddamned requirement, and several more beyond that, and why on God’s green earth were you hounding me like this, woman?

  Hernandez’s executive assistant was at her desk. She greeted me with a cheery smile. “Dr. Hernandez is expecting you. Go right in, please.”

  Nothing in her tone or expression came across as ominous. I managed a smile in return and went through the doors.

  Hernandez noted my entrance with the barest of nods. “Good news,” she said. “The ICCC contacted me this morning. They’d like you to present an extended version of your synopsis at the conference. I wanted to give you the good news in person.”

  She paused. Protocol said I ought to thank her profusely for her encouragement, but Hernandez was studying me with a frown.

  “Is something wrong?” I said.

  Hernandez shook her head. “No, I . . . That is, I was wrong. Then I was almost wrong again, except you helped me avoid that by submitting your extract directly to the conference. I would have recommended a different topic. Something politically safer.” Her mouth tucked into a wry smile at the word politically.

  Ah, yes. Hospital gossip said President Donnovan had dropped Hernandez’s name from the list of potential candidates for the HHS position. Gossip also said the search for two more surgeons to replace Carter and Letova had stalled. Too many potential candidates didn’t want to connect their names and careers to a hospital in the news for all the wrong reasons. Navarette in particular believed the board might pressure Hernandez to resign.

  “Thank you,” I said at last. “I appreciate your kind words.”

  “Thank you,” Hernandez said. “I’ll forward you the info packet for the conference, as well as the guidelines for your presentation. You�
��ll need to submit your completed paper by August fifteenth . . .”

  We reviewed my schedule for the next month. Hernandez asked about Chong and Bekker, and whether I would take on another student or two. Neither of us mentioned Carter’s trial, nor Nina’s suicide.

  Carter blackmailed her, Navarette had told me. Her brother owed money. He started running drugs for his dealer. Carter said she would turn him over to the police if Nina didn’t cooperate. Though how Carter ever found out about the drugs, I don’t know.

  Because the Brotherhood made it their business to find out. Because someone else, some other larger, more powerful organization, wanted the Brotherhood to succeed. But I hadn’t told Navarette my suspicions, because talking about the Brotherhood meant talking about the New Confederacy and Nadine Adler, subjects both too secret and too painful.

  ***

  The promised info packet waited in my message queue, along with the raw video and diagnostic records from Zimmerman’s operation. Avoiding the inevitable forms work, I clicked open the info packet and skimmed the requirements for presentations. Speaker slots are limited to thirty minutes, including Q & A. Requests for audiovisual equipment must be submitted with the final text of your presentation. Yeah, yeah, yeah.

  I was already making mental notes on how and where to expand my abstract when I came to the section about hotels and meals. No need for a hotel, with my living in the city. And the breakfast/lunch package looked truly awful, not to mention expensive. Then a paragraph near the end caught my attention:

  First Night Banquet, Seven-Course meal created by Master Chef Sophie Santini. Tickets $200/guest. Each conference speaker receives two tickets for themselves and a guest. RSVP by July 1.

  Huh. That was a major perk. Even I had heard of Master Chef Santini.

  Sara would love this dinner. Exquisite food and exquisite snark.

  My breath caught. The next moment I was weeping silently.

  Goddammit. I thought I’d run out of tears weeks ago. Apparently not. Grief kept catching me up with memories of Sara—Sara plucking herbs from her miniature garden as she cooked. Sara with her feet on the coffee table, smoking a clove cigarette and expounding on politics, literature, or music. Sara running her fingers over the keyboard of her piano. Sara, the imp of mischief, eyeing me with glee over a cup of coffee after she’d driven me into exasperation.