A Study in Honor

by Claire O'Dell

  Do not argue. Never argue. A video does no good if you’re already dead.

  The guards thrust me into a cramped windowless room, in the outer ring of the medical center. The walls were painted dull brown. The floor was layered with scuffed gray linoleum. There were two plastic chairs, one plastic table. I noted a video screen mounted in one corner and a second doorway opposite the one my guards had used.

  The lock engaged behind me. I leaned against the wall and stared at that second door. My head felt disconnected from the rest of me, as though someone had performed a savage operation upon my body. Ghost arm. Ghost head. I could still breathe, even if my ribs ached with every inhalation, and my muscles had locked in fear.

  The second door banged open and two men marched into the room. One was a bureaucrat—yellow haired, his complexion like school paste, his soft belly spilling over his belt. The second was a stocky black man who wore a shoulder holster and a badge that read security. I glanced from one to the other. Both were dangerous, each in his own way.

  Mr. Bureaucrat settled himself into the one chair. He gestured to Mr. Security, who took up a stance in the corner.

  “Captain Watson,” the bureaucrat said. “Please sit down.”

  “Who are you?” I said.

  “My name is not important—”

  “It is, dammit—”

  The security man crossed the room in three rapid strides and shoved me against the wall. One meaty hand gripped my shoulder, the other pressed a Taser gun into my ribs. “Be polite,” he said softly. “Can you do that?”

  The gun was a sharp point digging into my gut. I gulped down a breath, tasted the salt flavor of sweat in the air. For a moment, I was back in Alton—an imaginary Alton where the enemy had captured me.

  I jerked my head up and down.

  The security man studied my face a moment. He must have been satisfied, because he stepped back to his guard position but did not holster his weapon. I remained pressed against the far wall. My left arm was trembling. Pinpricks of electrical impulses ran through my stump and all the way down my ghost arm.

  Mr. Bureaucrat seemed oblivious to the exchange. “You have been terminated with cause,” he said. “If you wish to receive a copy of the report supporting this action, you have the right to file such a request, but I must warn you that your status as a temporary employee precludes the guarantee of any reply. Do you understand?”

  “I . . . What?” I could still feel the pressure of the Taser’s snub nose under my ribs.

  The man regarded me with a fishy stare that reminded me of Terrence Smith. “You are a temporary employee,” he said slowly. “Government regulations state you may request a copy of your employee file, but you are not guaranteed any other explanation for your termination. Do you understand?”

  I rubbed the shoulder the security man had grabbed. Or at least I tried to. My metal fingers refused to curl properly. “I do.”

  He handed over a binder of paperwork. “Sign here, please.”

  The top sheet was a standard form, stating I had been terminated from my position in a government facility, but as a veteran in good standing, I would continue to receive my regular benefits. I flipped through the rest—it was all government statistics for the VA in general and the VA Medical Center in particular, claiming that any recent reductions in staff were spread across age and sex and race. In the fine print at the bottom of the page was a disclaimer: The undersigned agreed to waive all action against the Veterans Administration of the United States. In return, the undersigned would receive unemployment benefits, and full payment at the ordinary hourly rate through the end of the current week.

  A paycheck for this week. And unemployment checks after that.

  I sucked my teeth, considered the various paths of action and consequence. I could argue. I could even refuse to sign and file a suit.

  Mr. Security continued to watch me with the patient gaze of a trained military man. Arguing was a terrible idea, I decided. And Mr. Bureaucrat was right about those government regulations. I had even signed a form my first day, stating I had read and understood them. Could I argue coercion? Probably. But there was the not-so-small matter of my shrinking bank account.

  Money, that damnable lure. My father had lectured me and Grace about honor and ethics. But we had also heard a different lecture from our mother about honor and debt and making our lives our own. I let my breath trickle from my lips as I considered my choices. A simple choice, really. Launch myself into an impossible battle. Or take the money and survive to fight another day.

  I was no hero. Not anymore. I signed the forms. Mr. Bureaucrat pressed a button, which summoned a young minion, pale with responsibility. She returned within a few moments with my copies, which I tucked into my duffel bag.

  “What about my personal items?” I asked.

  “They will be held at the main desk until Friday morning. You also have until then to return any hospital uniforms in your possession. Failure to do so means you will be billed for their replacement value.”

  He handed over a check, printed in case I would prove agreeable. I glanced at the number—it was like all my other checks from the VA—and added that to my supply of paperwork.

  Mr. Bureaucrat stood. “Thank you for making this easy. I wish you luck, Captain Watson.”

  He did not offer to shake hands. I was just as glad he did not. When Mr. Security maneuvered the door open, I made a brief show of checking over my duffel bag and other belongings before I exited the room. Do not hurry me, I thought. I’ll take my humiliation slowly, if you please.

  The man did not hurry me—perhaps I had proved I would go peaceably—but he did glide out the door just a step behind me. I wasn’t surprised. I had watched others escorted from the premises, the ones whom RN Thompson had judged inept, the ones who showed too much attitude with the doctors. The troublemakers and the idiots.

  I thought I was better than that.

  But those past incidents had taught me not to argue when Mr. Security followed me down the driveway to the bus stop. He didn’t abandon me there, oh no. He waited by my side until the next bus arrived and its doors hushed open. Only when the bus pulled away from the curb did he turn back to the medical center.

  I took the first open seat. The drunk next to me leered at me. I gathered my duffel bag onto my lap and made myself as small as possible. Tried not to think. That was easy at first. My brain still felt disconnected from here and now. It was only by habit that I made it through the first couple transfers. The same pattern I’d followed that morning, in reverse. But the pattern was already cracked and crumbling. By the time I disembarked at Dupont Circle, I couldn’t remember which bus came next, or if I needed to walk to the next stop. I circled around aimlessly until I fetched up against a low concrete wall. Somewhere close by was the restaurant where Sara Holmes and I had played our game of questions.

  Was Sara at home, asleep? Or had she left on further errands related to her current, mysterious mission?

  Or had she vanished entirely? She would, someday. Her chief would assign her elsewhere. Hudson Realty would lease apartment 2B to different, more affluent tenants. Perhaps it was just as well my life had crumbled into dust.

  I tilted my head back and stared at the sky. A steady drizzle wafted down from the clouds. Here and there a shaft of sunlight broke through, a brighter silver against the unremitting gray. Like the imagery Reverend Francis used, when he talked about God’s redemption breaking through the gray clouds of sin to touch the sinner.

  Weren’t no redemption for me today, Reverend.

  The rain misted down in heavier droplets. It washed away the tears on my face. No doubt a remnant of my altruistic, idiotic self. My unemployed self. Maybe it was time I took myself up north, to the border, where cheap rooms were more abundant than here. Maybe I could take that training and get a job as a real doctor, if not a surgeon. Maybe Thompson could give me a reference.

  I don't know how long I stood there, hands clenched in my pock
ets, my eyes closed against the gray October sky. Long enough for the rain to soak through my jacket and for my skin to prickle from the cold. Long enough for me to speculate all kinds of dark thoughts. Faith would be disappointed if I failed her now. Ah, but Faith herself had insisted that I owed no one but myself in these matters. Perhaps I should call her today and—

  “Captain! Captain Watson!”

  Jacob Bell’s voice yanked me back to here and now. I ratcheted myself around to face Jacob, half a block away, waving to me as he stumped along the sidewalk.

  “Captain,” he called out a third time.

  I shivered but remained where I was as he crossed the boulevard.

  Jacob stopped a few feet away from me. He still wore his dark blue orderly uniform and white running shoes, now filthy with street muck. He looked cold and wet, and from the set of his jaw, I knew his old injuries were bothering him. Jacob had his own half-healed wounds from the war, inside and out. I was ashamed that I kept forgetting them.

  Jacob tilted his head. “Going home?”

  I shrugged. “Soon. Maybe.”

  He shrugged back at me. “It’s a wet day, Captain. Happen we’ll both be more comfortable if we walk back to that apartment of yours. Maybe we can have a cup of the coffee you’re always telling the other techs about.”

  He didn’t touch me—he knew better than that—he only gestured along the street.

  I took a step. Then another. It got easier after that. We left the madness of Dupont Circle behind, though not the morning traffic, and continued along Q Street, over the bridge that divided northeast from northwest.

  “It wasn’t Thompson,” he said. “She didn’t know herself until eight a.m.”

  I nodded. That would be the way.

  “The official word was those black marks of yours. Most don’t care as long as you don’t get too many and as long as you do your job. But if they’re looking for an excuse . . .”

  “I know,” I said. My voice sounded strange and rough to my ears. I tried again. “I know how it goes, Jacob. I was late. I didn’t check this box or that on the forms. Or I checked too many boxes.” I tried to laugh, didn’t quite succeed. “They don’t like that neither.”

  Jacob sighed. “No, they don’t.”

  We crossed the bridge over Rock Creek and headed up Q past Wisconsin. The rain had died off, leaving a blanket of mist that obscured the boundaries between the pavement and the street. The air tasted clean and wet, the flavor of autumn. One of my neighbors had already ventured outside with her spaniel. She crossed the street as Jacob and I approached.

  Damn you, I thought. Damn you and yours.

  But the anger, though present, was muted today, as though I had used up my quota.

  Next to me, Jacob muttered. “That happen a lot in this neighborhood?” he asked quietly.

  “Every single goddamned day,” I replied. “You need to ask?”

  He laughed and shook his head. “Only surprised you put up with that shit. You never used to.”

  “I have. I do. From time to time. So have you.”

  I expected Jacob to argue. Or make a joke. But his steps had slowed unexpectedly. I paused to let him catch up, but he was staring hard in the direction of 2809 Q Street. A lean, dark figure lounged on the front steps, head tilted up. Sara Holmes. Of course.

  Sara lifted a cigarette to her lips, took a long drag. Expelled the smoke in a thin stream that coiled upward to join with the mist. She gave no sign she noticed us, but I knew better.

  Jacob made a noise of disgust. “Well, no good hiding from trouble.”

  We crossed the street. Sara glanced in our direction. “You found her,” she said to Jacob when we reached the steps.

  Jacob stared at Holmes with slitted eyes. “If you say so.”

  “I do say so, Jacob. Thank you for the favor.”

  All the softness of the rain-washed air vanished. Holmes was smiling that goddamned self-satisfied smile of hers, the one she used whenever her complicated plans unfolded just exactly so. Jacob . . . Jacob’s face had folded into a frown and he was shaking his head. Watching them both, I knew what he refused to say.

  “You knew about today,” I said to Holmes. “You knew and—and you sent Jacob to fetch me back here. Like a dog, fetching a stick. And you—” I rounded on Bell. “You did that. You gallop when she says run. You say, ‘Yes, ma’am, glad to fetch that stick.’ Just like back in August, when she needed a partner to share the rent. You fed me that story like you believed it.”

  Damn them both. I spun around and started across the street. Jacob grabbed my arm. I cursed and aimed a punch at his face with my device.

  Holmes was at my side in a heartbeat. “You need to come inside. Now.”

  She had captured my fist, the one made of metal. I tried to break free, but she gave a twist that sent an electric shock up my arm. I yelped.

  “Hey,” Jacob said. “Hey, now. You stop that.”

  “Go away, Jacob,” Holmes said. “You did what I asked. You brought her home. This next part is none of your business.”

  He blinked. Then his lips curled back.

  “Like a dog,” he breathed. He was glaring at us both. “Well then, I will.”

  He stomped away. Holmes gave my arm another twist that brought us around to face the steps. When I struggled, she leaned close and whispered in my ear, “The neighbors are watching. Let’s take our existentialist drama inside where we can talk in privacy. Or would you prefer we talk to the police?”

  Her expression was inflexible. Her eyes were dark, all traces of molten copper subsumed in those wide black irises.

  “Fine,” I said. “We go inside.”

  Her lips quirked into a smile. “I thought so.”

  Even so, she did not release me until we had navigated the entryway and elevator and she had locked our apartment door behind us. Sara took my duffel bag from me and pointed toward the parlor. I locked my feet in ready stance and shook my head. “You knew they had fired me.”

  “Not until this morning.”

  Her voice was soft and colorless. A warning, said my instincts, but I pressed ahead, too angry to care. “Really? Your net connection must be slow today, Agent Holmes.”

  “It’s not. I was occupied with a different new stream. Janet . . .”

  She drew a shaky breath. Turned away, but even so I saw the pity on her face.

  “I can find another job,” I said. “And another place to live.” My voice rose up, pushing away that pity. “I’m not your goddamned charity case. And no, it won’t be easy, but—”

  “Janet. Listen to me. Saúl Martínez is dead.”

  14

  She tried to explain. A mistake.

  With a cry, I flung myself at her. Sara fended me off with the duffel bag, tossed it aside, and with a few quick steps gained the parlor. Before she could turn around, before she could offer that pity again, or worse, some platitude about the necessity for Saúl’s death and how I should be reasonable, I had ripped off my jacket and pried open the control panel for my device. I tapped out the familiar release sequence, then grabbed my device by its elbow and swung it around.

  Sara leaped back, her mouth open in a wide O.

  I almost laughed at the sight—Sara Holmes, taken by surprise—but the laugh came out as a growl.

  Sara rolled onto her toes, arms loose at her sides. Her face had smoothed into a mask, and I saw the same blank and deadly stare my attacker must have faced. My pulse thrummed in my ears. Terror. Rage. Grief. A strange ecstasy that I could at last strike out at Sara. She would beat me down, but I didn’t care.

  Unexpectedly, the mask dissolved into the Sara I recognized. She lowered her hands and took a step toward me. “You’re crying,” she said.

  “Fuck crying.” I lunged forward and drove the fist of my device into her gut.

  She made an abortive move to evade the blow. Too late. The fist rammed home. Sara doubled over with a grunt.

  I flung my device to one side and sank to my knees.
Fuck, fuck, fuck. The world had crumbled beneath my feet a second time. Whatever tiny victory I had over Sara changed nothing.

  “You let me do that,” I whispered.

  “It . . . was the . . . only . . . way.”

  Her words came out breathless and halting—my blow had not been a light one. I wanted to laugh at her predicament, but I was weeping too hard.

  Saúl. Oh, god. Saúl.

  So many times Sara had turned aside my questions with outrageous replies, had pretended to misunderstand or simply refused to speak. This time, no. This time she told the truth. A blow as direct and hard as mine.

  “How . . . how did he die?”

  Sara lowered herself to the floor next to me. Close, but not touching. “The official report calls it an accident,” she said.

  An accident. War spawned accidents by the thousands. But something about Sara’s tone pricked a hole in my grief.

  “What do you mean?” I said. “Tell me what happened.”

  The incident started with the weekly trip to Decatur, she told me. Captain Martínez had set off at four p.m. on Thursday in a company jeep, accompanied by a second medical officer, Captain Mayhew, and Corporal Ayers, the company supply clerk.

  “Ayers took the wheel,” Sara said. “They had just crossed Route 159 and were headed for U.S. 55 when she lost control of their vehicle and the jeep crashed into a ditch. They were not discovered for several hours after the accident, when they failed to report as expected in Decatur. Captain Mayhew died immediately of a broken neck. Corporal Ayers remains in a coma as of this morning. Her condition is guarded. Captain Martínez survived the crash with a broken femur and a concussion, but died Sunday morning from complications. The report came to me today, just after you left for work.”

  I pressed my forehead to the wooden floor. Saúl dead. And Mayhew, too—a man with so little imagination that he had often driven me into a fury, but who was nonetheless dedicated to his patients. Corporal Ayers. That snotty little girl. She used to talk racist trash with her friends when she thought no one else could overhear. I grieved for her, too. I didn’t want to, but I did.