by Evans, John
Irritated, Voskuil returned to his review of the girl. Busy or not, he’d make time for a word with Gladden. That was some stunt she just pulled. At twenty yards he could tell that old bag was one cold night away from croaking in her sleep.
It’s the pity cases that get blood on your hands, he thought, and handed the child a towel. “Try to dry yourself off, would you?”
It was definitely going to be a long night.
#
A light rain drummed the Interceptor’s windows. The drive back to the station was virtually silent. Except for the chatter of the dispatcher, of course. Nic had stared into the opaque windshield until Winter prompted her to put on the wipers. The atmosphere outside was thick and gray.
He was always spent at the end of a tour — they rarely had one without action — but today he was particularly glad that only the most serious of calls could keep him from clocking out.
The riot had been a tough one.
Worse, he saw, for Nic. Her face was stony, her eyes focused on the road ahead. She was seldom voluble, these days, but he’d never seen her this withdrawn. And they’d encountered, in the course of their eleven-month partnership, worse things than what happened to the teen in the Seahawks jacket.
Of course, Winter hadn’t been the one to pull the trigger today.
“Nic,” he said, unable to bear it. She must have known from his tone where he was going with this because she immediately said, “I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Okay,” he said. “If you ever do… Lemme know. Whenever.”
She glanced over and he saw, in her slight, pained smile, a gratitude he savored. She nodded.
They passed one of the ubiquitous billboards — huge red type stamped on a black background. The simple, unequivocal declarative: THERE IS NO CURE.
We get it already, Winter thought. The truth is all around us.
But people needed the reminder. If you forgot that simple fact at the wrong time, you’d break the rules. And that meant more death.
The one thing we have plenty of, he thought. His bleak mood got bleaker.
What a shitty day.
#
A high perimeter wall enclosed a collection of multi-story buildings that, in simpler times, had served as county courthouses.
As they passed through the fortified gates, Winter gazed at the lichen-encrusted sign that identified the complex as the KING COUNTY MUNICIPAL DEFENSE BUREAU. They need to scrape that shit off, he thought. The green stuff grew fast and would make the stone letters decay.
After two checkpoints, the Interceptor entered a subterranean garage and joined its fellows in the motor pool. Winter and Nic unloaded their gear and carried it to the elevator.
They walked in step. Winter liked that.
Donny Petrescu, with his perpetually oil-stained coverall, was chatting it up with one of the other mechanics in the garage office.
“Hey Donny, her engine’s running rough. We put in a req on that tuneup three weeks ago,” Nic said, crossly.
“I’ll get on it, boss,” Donny said, amiable as ever. “But shop’s running six weeks behind right now, so you got three weeks to wait.”
“Good thing it’s not the brakes,” Winter muttered as the elevator doors closed behind them.
“Place is going to hell in a handbasket,” Nic growled as they rode upward.
The elevator deposited them in a courtyard connecting various agency buildings. A few employees in-and-out-of-uniform crossed, most eschewing umbrellas, from one office to another.
Across the plaza was the mammoth concrete pile that housed the Department of Virus Control. It was the biggest building at the Defense Bureau by a wide margin. And we’re still losing this war, Winter thought.
Inside, the screeners gave them a perfunctory sweep, laced with terse pleasantries and friendly jibes, and they were admitted to the lobby. This elevator was broken so they forced themselves up two flights of steps. Winter kept fit but his calves were aching by the end. He was wearing 15 pounds of body armor, which he’d acclimated to, but this had been an exhausting shift.
Douglas, another trooper, passed as they entered the locker rooms. “Top is looking for you,” he said, with a significant look.
Winter and Nic traded glances. Couldn’t be good. There wasn’t time to hand out commendations these days. The only business was bad news.
Winter’s weary mind ran through the options as they headed for the captain’s office. They might have to work a double shift. He dreaded that possibility, but it wasn’t the worst-case scenario. Could Gary have reported his run-in with Nic? Nah. The guy was a first-class son of a bitch, but he was no tattletale.
In the locker room, a few troopers changed into or out of their body armor. Someone was playing reggae music at moderate volume.
Captain Frank Quarles himself suddenly banged through the doors and spotted them. He was one of those guys who always spoke three decibels louder than any situation called for.
“Waters! Masakawa! I need five minutes of your precious time.”
He jerked his head in the direction of his office. They followed. Winter could sense the tension in Nic’s body language. She wasn’t in the mood for bullshit, that was for sure.
Fortunately, their captain was a no-bullshit kinda guy.
Quarles’ office spoke volumes about him. The American flag, not unfurled but seated in a dignified stand. The portrait, not of their current president, but Ronald Reagan. The immaculate desk with an old-fashioned nameplate on it. As if anyone needed one to know who occupied this office.
Quarles beckoned them to take seats opposite the desk and sank into his basic, uncomfortable-looking chair. Again, the chair was telling. The captain could have a nice Aeron if he wanted one. But he didn’t.
Quarles had the look of an aging but still-fit Army man. Winter was aware of an armed services background in the captain’s past, but Quarles hadn’t said much about it. His sculpted silver hair was parted severely. He had mentioned that he used push-ups (lots of them) rather than Nautilus machines to maintain his physique at fifty-something.
On the other hand, the wire-rimmed glasses he wore were more math teacher than soldier. Looking at him, you weren’t sure if Quarles was about to issue commands or complete equations.
Winter had heard a lot of commands but never seen the captain take chalk to a blackboard.
“You kids look like shit,” Quarles said by way of preamble as they settled into their chairs.
“Maybe the work doesn’t agree with us,” Winter replied.
“No, you’re still the best I have. You’re not here to get chewed out.”
That was a relief. Quarles had a drill instructor’s bark, when roused to use it. At the best of times his voice was somewhat like an 18-wheeler shifting gears.
Quarles popped his humidor and withdrew a Punch. Winter arched an eyebrow at Nic. The captain was in a contemplative mood. The cigars only came out for promotions, strategy sessions or the rare moments of unwinding. Was the scotch next?
As Quarles snipped the end off his stogie, he began. “Got a question for you jokers. Take a look at each other.”
They did so. Nic seemed perplexed. But Winter could gaze into her eyes as long as necessary.
“Good. Don’t look away. Now tell me — could you put a bullet between those eyes?”
They both flinched. Then smiled ruefully.
“Haha... That’s what I thought.”
Quarles looked genuinely amused as he lit his cigar. “You two have been paired up for more than a year. Make a great team, no question. Good example for the others. But that’s too long.”
Reassignment. Winter couldn’t believe he hadn’t thought of this possibility. He knew they kicked ass together, so he just assumed they’d be partners for the foreseeable future. But of course THIS was what landed them in Quarles’ office... The standard duty assignment was six months.
“You’re too fond of each other. If one of you gets the bug, the other one has
to pull that trigger without a moment’s hesitation. Lives could be at stake. Now, I don’t blame you. I might hesitate to put bullets in you, too. But I’m not on the street with you every day, so I won’t have to.”
Winter knew the regs. If your partner was infected in the field, you were obligated to carry out summary euthanasia without hesitation. There is no cure, he thought hollowly. Why was the government’s favorite catch-phrase rebounding in his brain over and over today?
Even if it was hopeless, Winter had to argue. “Come on, Q. You split us up and you hurt the department. Hell, you hurt the state of Washington.”
“Rules are rules,” Quarles said. “Damn good reasons behind them, too. I’ve looked the other way as long as I can.”
“Give us another three months,” Nic said, emphatically, and Winter felt really good for a second. “Winter and me, we know what the other one’s gonna do before they do it. We’re keeping each other alive out there.”
“I’m not that worried about you two staying alive. You know how to handle yourselves. Look, this isn’t a debate. We’re just gonna celebrate your run and call it a night.”
With that, he turned around and slid open the panel on the credenza behind him to reveal the amply stocked liquor cabinet within. There was even a mini-fridge under there.
Ah, the scotch came out. Turning back, Quarles slid each v-cop a tumbler of J & B on the rocks. Poured one for himself.
They all sipped their drinks in silence for a moment. For Winter’s money, J & B had a weird aftertaste. But single malt was not on the menu tonight. He felt a nearly crushing melancholia.
Nic sighed. “Guess it’s for the best. I don’t want to face that moment, either.”
Winter wasn’t ready to accept it. “We expect civvies to pull that trigger, if need be, every day. Doesn’t matter if it’s your mom, your wife or your kid. What’s it say that you aren’t sure a couple of seasoned v-cops can do what needs to be done?”
“It says I know something about human nature.” Quarles was past arguing about it. “Now quit whining. You two can still go bowling, for Christ’s sake.”
“Who you gonna pair us up with?” Nic asked.
“Rookies. Figure it’s the best on-the-job training we can give ‘em.”
The veterans groaned. Winter rolled his eyes. “What, no pay cut, too?”
Quarles finished his whiskey in a gulp. “All right, you two. Clear out. You can paint the town red if you want, but Angie would be thrilled if I got home before midnight once this week.”
#
Winter opened his locker and peeled off his uniform shirt. Stowed the gunbelt and high-ankled boots. The boots had to be high because in their line of work, tromping through sewage-poisoned water was not unheard of. Also, crippled feeders were more than happy to take a chunk out of your ankle, if they could get to it.
Winter snuck his usual peek at Nic, also changing. She was about five inches shorter, so about 5’7. Winter was twice her size but every muscle of Waters’ slim build was maintained at a high level of fitness. The feminine aspects of that toned build were ill concealed by her rather skimpy pink underwear. All too soon, she slid into a pair of jeans.
Winter turned his eyes away. He couldn’t believe they were being split up. This was officially the shittiest day in a long succession of shitty days.
He still couldn’t believe he was losing her.
Nic slipped on a black turtleneck and grabbed her bag to leave.
Winter went for it. “Hey. I’m starving. Come over for dinner?”
Nic looked surprised, but thought it over with due consideration. At last, she nodded. A warm smile.
“Sure. But no Burmese. Last time it gave me the runs.”
#
The coffee was cold and sludgy but its caffeine still viable. Dr. Lena Gladden sipped with a grimace. She needed some to make it home without falling asleep. Just another sixteen-hour day at the Evaluation Center.
Farther along the table, Leon Spivey, a burly physician assistant, sat with his head down. He snored loudly.
Passing by Voskuil glanced into the break room, spotted Lena, and entered. She viewed him warily; Voskuil had been something of a big brother to her in the six months she’d been here, but the man possessed a towering ego. You’d think he was a surgeon, she thought. But, like Lena, Voskuil was an emergency physician pressed to service in an Evaluation Center. Where care was not the priority. Only a coldly rational diagnosis was valued here.
“Gladden, you’re looking radiant this evening,” Voskuil said as he grabbed a stale donut and sat down beside her. The sarcasm in his voice was hardly necessary.
She managed a companionable smile. “What’s up, James?”
“I thought we’d have a little chat,” Voskuil said, putting his feet up on the table and resting his head against the wall. “Don’t worry, we won’t bother Leon. Our brother would sleep through a small explosion in here.”
“We gonna have one?”
Lena knew something was up, and wanted to cut to the chase. Voskuil looked cannily at her. Nodded.
“Here’s the deal, short and sweet. I saw you give that old bag a clean bill of health. Come on, Gladden. You know they’ll review our assignments. She was a blatant red card!”
“Could be weeks before they get to today’s cases,” Lena said, somewhat relieved to know what this was all about. “If they ever do.”
Voskuil’s gaze was smug, almost contemptuous. “You’re headed for trouble, girlfriend. Three safety warnings on your patient log already. One more and you'll be up for administrative review. Could even face criminal charges...”
“You know as well as I do that long-term quarantine is a death sentence. And that junkie who got shot today knew well enough, too.”
Voskuil shrugged, appraising her shrewdly. “You owe me one, Lena. Management takes this shit pretty fucking seriously. As you well know. So let’s assume for the sake of argument they catch you. You get disciplinary action, the center gets an audit. Nobody wants a bunch of investigators sniffing around here.”
Lena wasn’t sure, but she thought Voskuil was running some kind of black-market operation. He’d alluded to his plans of amassing a war chest, building a little stronghold in isolated eastern Washington and living out his days in safety and comfort. She assumed he was stealing prescription drugs somehow, though there were still operational surveillance cameras placed throughout the center.
“You’ve heard the horror stories,” Lena argued. “People don’t call them ‘camps’ for the canoeing and kumbayas. Conditions are horrific.”
“Sure, they’re understaffed, overcrowded,” Voskuil acknowledged. “But we don’t know—”
“We know,” Lena interjected, staring at him. “Have you ever met anyone — I mean, one single person — who came back from any of those places?”
Voskuil waved a hand. “My social circle is pretty small these days.”
Rather than chastened, Lena felt increasingly outraged. “Forgive me if I think twice before I send someone off to die! I can’t do it anymore, James. I just can’t.”
“Okay, fine,” Voskuil said, standing up. “You shouldn’t have to. Let’s take this to Hegeman. Right now. Come on. We’re both off for the night, right? Let’s swing by his office.”
Lena was surprised. “You’re serious? You’ll back me up?”
“Sure. I agree with you. It’s a dirty little secret. Let’s get to the bottom of this, shall we?”
“Great,” she said. For once, he’d exceeded her expectations.
#
The director’s office was hastily decorated, owing to the center’s ad hoc genesis and general state of chaos. But Hegeman did have a very large mahogany desk and a city view.
Voskuil and Lena sat in plush chairs across from the small, balding man who held so many lives in the palm of his hand.
“Believe me,” Hegeman was saying. “We take these concerns very seriously. In the morning, I’ll run this inquiry up the chain of c
ommand. Rattle some cages.”
Lena had the measure of this diffident bureaucrat and knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that he was paying them some truly half-assed lip service.
“Maybe I'll join the protest movement, issue a nice press release detailing what’s really going on. See what America thinks,” she said. “There are still some news outlets who would jump at this story,” she added, bringing out the big guns. “They’re not all in the corporatocracy’s pocket.”
“Can you say as much for this facility?” Voskuil said, warning her with his eyes. Hegeman’s stare carried its own threat.
“I don’t recommend that course of action,” he said. “The system isn’t perfect — no one says it is. But we’re in a national health crisis of medieval proportions. There simply aren’t the resources to give every citizen the care they deserve. We’re doing the best we can…”
“There are still plenty of resources, it’s just who they’re going to that I question,” Lena said, but it was a lost cause. She sat back in her chair, defeated.
“Look, doctors,” Hegeman said, leaning forward as if in friendly conspiracy with them, “Candidly, I do think the lid is coming off that story, sooner or later. But we don’t know that the consequences will be good. What I do know is you sure as hell don’t want to be the first to try.”
He added, ominously, “Though I would guess that you aren’t.”
#
After leaving Hegeman’s office, Voskuil startled Lena by grabbing her arm. “Are you trying to get yourself killed? I hope so, because talking about going to the media is a great way to do it!”
She shook him off angrily and kept walking. “I’m just trying to figure out a way to do this job and live with myself. And right now the job doesn’t seem that important.”
He pointed up at the blank, implicitly judgmental eye of a security camera. “Careful. You sure those aren’t wired for sound?”
