A Study in Honor

by Claire O'Dell

  Route 3 joined us, then split away to the north. We continued east on 301 to the coast. I caught the scent of brine in the air. All my imagination, because we were too far from the coast, but as Faith Bellaume would say, imagination is a powerful god.

  * * *

  The long night overtook me not long after that. I dropped into sleep, only half aware when we crossed over the narrow neck of the Chesapeake to Kent Island, then to the Eastern Shore. But when the car stopped completely, I jerked awake with a smothered cry.

  “We’re safe,” Sara said at once. “Time for breakfast and a few errands.”

  The errands came first. Sara told me to wait in the car while she visited a drugstore. We had parked on the street, right outside a coffee shop. Small-town Maryland it was, with its rows of local stores, brick and plaster alternating with each other, and all of them with checked or striped awnings. The bank across the street said centreville savings and loan. An elderly couple passed by, walking a pair of poodles. A couple kids rode past on bicycles, heading to school and already late. Such an ordinary town, and such an ordinary day.

  Sara returned in fifteen minutes with a bag tucked under one arm. “Now for breakfast,” she said. “More important, coffee.”

  In the coffee shop, she dispatched the waitress with orders for two omelets, extra hash browns, and a pot of their strongest, hottest coffee. Then she spread the results of her errands on the table.

  One prepaid cell phone. Three highway maps, for Maryland, Pennsylvania, and New York. A city map for NYC and another for Pittsburgh. “Distractions,” she said to my questioning glance. “We’ll stop one more time in New Jersey for local maps.”

  It was then I realized she no longer wore her lace gloves or earbuds. The word untraceable came to mind, but then I had immediate doubts.

  “Can they track us through your implants?” I asked.

  She shook her head. “Those only function with the rest of my toys. Now, let us plan our sightseeing tour.”

  * * *

  We rolled into Newark around twelve thirty. Our destination was a walk-in clinic on Bloomfield Avenue, where Katrina Bachman worked. Sara had apparently memorized our maps, because she did not bother to consult them as we coasted down the street, scanning the almost illegible signage on the buildings and street corners. There were no electronic billboards here, no high-tech plasma displays advertising the latest luxury item or political candidate. Here the mottled brick and concrete structures carried paper banners or the occasional metal plaque. discount wine & spirits. rodriguez mini-mart. e&g services. Or more frequently, this space for rent.

  “Ah, there she blows,” Sara murmured.

  She nodded to our left, toward a three-story clapboard structure, its windows masked by yellow shades. The paint was fresh, the color a muddy shade of gray. A metal signpost advertised medical services, 8 a.m.–8 p.m.

  Sara rolled past the clinic to the next stoplight.

  “Now what?” I asked. “We can’t bully our way inside and demand she talk to us.”

  “No, we can’t. You can.”

  Before I could protest, she made an abrupt left onto Fourth Street and sped past a line of stores barricaded behind metal security gates, landing us next to an expired parking meter. “Get out,” she said. “You can walk to the clinic from here. My sources tell me Dr. Bachman has the primary shift this afternoon.”

  I briefly considered punching her with my metal fist, but there was the gun to consider, not to mention innocent pedestrians.

  “And what do I say to her? ‘Hi, I’m from the government and I’m here to help’?”

  Sara snorted. “That would be my line. No, pretend you are a patient. Convince her to talk about Alton and Jonesboro and all the rest. We can use your testimony to persuade my chief about a formal investigation, and once we do, we can take our doctor into protection and I shall question her myself.”

  “But—”

  “Janet, you are the doctor. You are the veteran. I can pretend a great many things, but not that.” And when I hesitated, she laid a hand on my shoulder. “We know she’s frightened. She won’t talk to someone like me. Now go. I’ll drive around and wait for you across the street.”

  I blew out a breath. Sara was right, goddamn it. “I shall do my best.”

  “I know. I trust you for that.”

  Oh. Well, in that case.

  I exited the car, taking care not to stumble over the broken sidewalk. Sara pulled away from the curb and turned into a side street.

  It was colder, here in New Jersey. Cold and bleak, in spite of the sunny day, or perhaps my impression was colored by the deserted streets, with their tumbleweeds of garbage and the graffiti splashed over the concrete and brick. I was right about the cold, however. By the time I reached the clinic, I was shivering in my fleece-lined jacket.

  The door rattled with bells as I opened it. Inside was a ten-by-ten waiting room with a linoleum floor and water-stained plaster walls. A young woman with purple nail polish and a collection of studs along her lower lip occupied the tiny receptionist cubicle. “Write your name, your insurance ID, and the time of day,” she told me.

  Sara’s caution had infected me. I scribbled Jacky Wilson for the name, followed by an equally made-up ID. The time was 12:42 p.m.

  I took a seat among the other patients—several elderly men and women, one younger woman with two small children and a baby, a teenage boy who coughed every few minutes. Over the next hour, a nurse came to the door at intervals. One by one the other patients took their turn following her into the back rooms.

  Eventually the nurse reappeared. “Jacky Wilson? Ms. Jacky Wilson?”

  She repeated the name a third time before I jerked to attention. The girl behind the reception desk smothered a laugh. I made a pretense of yawning—not that I had to try very hard—and followed the nurse through a pastel-colored hallway and into an examination room. There I waited another twenty minutes, my bare heels kicking against the metal exam table, until the door opened once more.

  Katherine Calloway.

  I knew her at once, even though the image from Sara’s documents showed a younger, less haunted woman. She had aged these past five years and looked much older than fifty-seven. Her fine hair—now completely gray—was drawn back into a severe ponytail. Her skin was paper white, with a scattering of pale red freckles, and folded over and around her jaws. And her eyes . . . I had seen those same eyes in my patients rescued from the front lines. The eyes of someone exhausted beyond endurance.

  “We seem to have a problem,” she said, studying the clipboard in her hand. “The health ID you gave us doesn’t match your name. However, we can still treat you, as long as you’re an American citizen or the child of one.”

  She glanced up with an expression faintly quizzical, but clearly expecting me to give some rational answer.

  I drew a deep breath. Here came the test. Oh, Sara, Sara, I hope you were right about this one. I hope you were right about me.

  “The ID doesn’t match because I lied.”

  We both jumped when I said that. Hurriedly, before she could back out of the room, I added, “I lied because you did, Dr. Calloway.”

  Calloway’s cheeks flushed, bright red patches against her pale skin. “You . . . That is a strange accusation, Ms. Wilson. Have you held these absurd convictions very long?”

  “No,” I said softly. “Not until Alton, Illinois.”

  The color vanished from her face. She stared at me, her eyes no longer dead, but wide and bright with terror. “Who are you really?” she whispered. “Do you want money? I don’t have much but—”

  “I don’t want money,” I said at once. Dear god, why wasn’t Sara here instead of me? She would know what to say to this woman. “I’m a doctor just like you. Mobile Medical Unit #2076 in Illinois. At least I was up until April. I . . . I need to talk to you about one of your former patients. Belinda Díaz. Do you remember her?”

  Calloway acknowledged the name with a flinch. “I might
.”

  “She died,” I said.

  Another flinch, less obvious than the first. So. Was this a surprise? Or merely guilt? I remembered Sara’s last words to me. “Maybe you were frightened,” I said. “I know how that feels. But maybe you know how it feels to lose a patient and forever wonder why.”

  That got me no response, not even a twitch. But I could sense her nerves, how she might bolt at any moment.

  “I am—I was a doctor,” I went on. “A surgeon in the army. I met Private Díaz later in Washington, DC. She came to the VA Medical Center, where I worked. She told me about her plans for her future. All those plans ended October fifteenth. A blood clot leading to heart failure, they told me, but I don’t believe that. It’s too simple an explanation. I was hoping you could tell me more about her, about her last mission—”

  “No.”

  Calloway’s voice cut through my babbling.

  “No,” she said again. “Not here. Not now.” Her gaze flicked over to my device. “You lost your arm in Alton?”

  I nodded. No need to mention my subsequent discharge and the loss of my career. It would be obvious enough to her.

  She scribbled on her prescription pad and thrust the sheet at me. “I can talk to you later. After my shift. Let’s say eight thirty.”

  * * *

  The address was a sports bar located on the same street, a mile from the clinic.

  “She wouldn’t talk,” I told Sara, who waited for me across the street. “I can’t tell if she was afraid someone might overhear, or she just wanted to get rid of me.”

  “Possibly a little of both,” Sara said.

  She had bought a pack of clove cigarettes from a nearby smoke shop. Now she drew on her cigarette and released a trickle of smoke into the cold October air. “So, here’s our new plan. You meet the doctor alone and let her talk as much or little as she wants. I’ll get as close as I can and record her testimony. Once she leaves, I take her into custody and go to my chief for a full investigation. Let’s go, before someone at the clinic sees you loitering here with me.”

  She reached out a hand. I jerked mine out of reach. “Go where?” I demanded. “Sara, you were right. She’s terrified. And she mentioned my arm. What if she tries to run away again?”

  Sara answered each of my questions in turn, as if I were an utterly reasonable creature. “Of course she’s terrified. That is another important data point, which I can explain later. For now, we shall retire to a motel for some badly needed sleep. Meanwhile, I have arranged for certain friends to keep watch.”

  I translated friends to family. More debt was my first thought, followed by a growing uneasiness with Sara’s seemingly endless family and their connections. But Sara gave me no time to argue. She herded me to the Saab, now parked around the block. We drove to a nearby motel, where she paid cash for one room and two sets of keys. Then she locked me inside with orders to sleep.

  Sleep. As if I could order my body around like that. I spent the next hour fidgeting on the bed until Sara reappeared with a bag of Italian grinders and an extra-large bottle of Diet Coke. We ate. We drank. She set the room’s ancient alarm clock for six p.m. Then she took the other bed and dropped immediately to sleep. I lay on my back to stare at the ceiling, convinced I would spend the next five hours awake, when I too followed her down that rabbit hole.

  * * *

  Sara woke me with a touch. I started up, caught my breath. The alarm clock showed seven fifteen. Our room was dark, with just a faint illumination from the bathroom. I caught the scent of soap on Sara’s damp skin. She smiled at me.

  “You needed the sleep, my love,” she said. “But not to worry. We have time enough to shower and eat and transform ourselves into respectable people, the kind our doctor might be convinced to trust.”

  “Calloway?” My voice was thick from sleep.

  “At the clinic still,” Sara told me. “My friends will keep watch until we arrive. We shall follow the doctor to our rendezvous.”

  She had procured hot coffee and a stack of grilled cheese sandwiches. I choked down my share, then scrubbed myself clean in the motel’s less-than-adequate shower. Sara brought our bags in from the Saab, and I took the time to disinfect my stump and replace the sweat-stained cotton sock with a clean one.

  I still wasn’t sure what Calloway could tell us. Yes, she had worked for Livvy, and yes, Livvy and Adler Industries had connections to the VA Medical Center, but I had no idea how that connected to Belinda Díaz and the New Civil War.

  Don’t worry about that, Sara had told me. Just let her talk. The connections are my job. Remember?

  We arrived back at the clinic ten minutes before eight. The clinic windows showed a pale yellow glow behind their shades. There were few cars parked on either side; fewer still drove past. Sara exited the Saab and ducked into an alley. Consulting with our mysterious watcher, I guessed.

  I sank back into my seat and tilted my head up, staring at the mottled gray of the car’s ceiling. Sara had made it sound so straightforward.

  Talk. Sure, yeah. And what do I say to Katherine Calloway this time? Do I ask her leading questions? Do I buy her shots of whiskey until we’re both weeping over the patients we’ve lost?

  The thudding of running footsteps snatched me from my thoughts. “Change of plans,” Sara said breathlessly as she slid back into the driver’s seat. “Our doctor left her post early, but my friend reports she did show up as promised at our meeting place.”

  The address for the sports bar was also Bloomfield Avenue, a half-dozen blocks away. We pulled into the parking lot ten minutes later and maneuvered around until we found an open spot near the trash bins. The evening was cold, the air brittle with a hint of an early snow. A spattering of stars interrupted the blue-black expanse overhead.

  Sara glanced around and made a signal. I caught sight of a figure underneath a lamppost across the street. “Why can’t you have your friends take the doctor into custody?” I said. “Why all this sneaking around?”

  “Because that would be kidnapping, and our government disapproves of that. Unless the kidnapper has an official reason. Which we do not. Yet. Besides, I want our doctor to speak willingly. We learn more of the truth that way.”

  The bar was as crowded as the parking lot, and much noisier. A soundtrack echoed from the ceiling, and there were video screens embedded into the walls. Most of the customers were young and white, most with studs like the girl at the medical clinic. I felt my senses go to high alert. Sara and I did not fit in here. Nor did Calloway.

  Sara was scanning the floor, looking for our doctor and shaking her head.

  “She’s not here,” I said. I had to shout to make myself heard.

  “We check the bar,” Sara shouted back. “Then the restrooms.”

  We wrestled through the crowds to the bar. Sara caught the bartender’s attention and shouted an order for two Budweisers. She slapped down two bills in exchange for the glasses and motioned for me to follow her around the bar. Still no sign of Calloway. Then Sara made a dive for an empty stool that was nearly invisible in the crush. She plucked a coaster off the half-empty glass on the counter—that standard signal that someone would be coming back for their drink.

  Sara slammed her beer onto the counter and leaned close to me. “She was here,” she said into my ear. “Not five minutes ago. Come on.”

  The women’s room was empty. The men’s room as well. Sara was snarling, but then her lips pulled back into a grin. “That way.”

  That way led down a short hallway to a service entrance. We found ourselves in an alley between the bar and a parking garage. At one end, a wooden fence blocked the alley. In the other direction, the bordering street was just visible beyond several trash bins and a mountain of wooden crates.

  Sara took her anonymous cell from her pocket. “What’s the word?” she whispered into it. “Good enough. We can discuss the terms later. Keep watch out by the street. If you hear any noise, you know what to do.”

  To me, she
said, “Our doctor went into the garage a moment ago.”

  We hurried through the nearest door. The echo of footsteps sounded from above. Sara pointed to a brightly lit stairwell to our left. “Follow her. Get her to talk. I’ll come around by the ramp.”

  I nodded once and ran for the stairs. As I rounded the first turn, a heavy door slammed shut, the crash reverberating down the stairwell. She had exited on the second floor, then. My metal arm felt heavy and cold. The rest of me was alight with a strange electricity. I reached my goal, flung the door open, in time to see my quarry pelting toward the opposite end.

  “Katherine!” I called out. “Katherine Calloway.”

  She stumbled and swung around. “You.”

  I hesitated, then took a few steps toward her.

  “Yes, me. You said you would talk to me.”

  “Maybe I changed my mind.”

  She was edging away from me. I dared one step, but no more. Her body was strung tight, and she clutched her car keys in a fist. Soft, soft and slow, I told myself. “You said we could talk.” One more step. “You said—”

  “Stop. Right there.” Her voice broke on a sob. “Yes, I said that. I . . . I know about Alton. That’s the reason. But then I saw her and—”

  Footsteps rang from the opposite end of the garage. It was Sara. Her hands were empty and held out to either side. Calloway spun around with a cry. “No!”

  I darted toward her. She cursed and aimed a punch at my face. Then Sara was there and had captured her wrists. The car keys went skittering away. Calloway struggled and kicked. Sara merely twisted her captive’s arms around and held her securely. “No more tantrums,” she said. “My name is Holmes. I’m with the FBI. We have a few questions for you, Dr. Calloway.”

  Calloway hissed. “You lied to me. You tricked me.”

  “No and yes,” I said. “I did serve at Alton. I was there in April when the rebels overran us.” I lifted my device and, with an effort, forced the fingers into a fist. “It’s because of Alton that I’m not a surgeon anymore. So I got myself a job as a med tech at the VA in DC. Private Díaz came to us for treatment. She died, Calloway.”