to give me a little privacy. He’s already taken my vitals. We’ve long since gotten past the first-names stage. Never mind the silliness with paper sheets and hospital johnnies.
The office is cold. I’ve spent an awful lot of my life perched on examining tables, and the percentage gets higher every year. I let my question hang on the air, but Simon doesn’t answer. Instead, he turns on the water and starts soaping his arms to the elbow.
I drape my shirt over a straight-backed green plastic chairand unbuckle my holster before skinning my jeans off, too. The boots are already neatly side-by-side on the floor under the chair seat. I keep my undershirt and panties on. I got out of the habit of wearing a bra when my burns were still tender. Never really needed one anyway, except for running.
I change the subject. “Did you get those pills analyzed for me, Simon?”
He turns back as I put my good-side foot on the black rubber step and lift myself up on to the examining table. “I did,” he answers. “Where did you get that stuff, Jenny?”
Lifting my shoulders, I lie facedown on the sterile paper-covered table. “Street.”
His hands are very gentle as he pushes my shirt up over the long-faded ridges of scar running the length of my spine. Cool latex-wrapped fingers find the lumps of the nanoprocessors at the small of my back, the nape of the neck. “Some minor inflammation here, Jen. Any soreness?”
“It hurts less than physical therapy,” I answer.
He grunts. “What doesn’t? What have you been taking for it?”
“The usual. Booze, caffeine, aspirin.”
“You look like you’ve lost weight.”
I sigh and press my face into the padded headrest. Paper crinkles against my forehead and cheek. “I’m clean. Promise. Years now.”
Change the subject.
“Simon, you look tired.”
“I was up late. So how did you happen to get possession of a half-dozen tabs of rigathalonin?”
“It is Hammer?” I am sure he feels me stiffen. “I didn’t take any.”
“Nearly, and I know you didn’t, unless you got really lucky. It’s tainted. A third of the pills.”
“I knew that.”
Three more deaths this week.
“What do you mean nearly?”
“I mean, it’s nearly rigathalonin. It’s a closely relateddrug, at least—and there’s traces of something else in it, too. Probably from inadequately cleaned equipment. Routine testing would have revealed it.”
“So how did it wind up in Hartford? And did you identify a serial number?” I wince as he probes around the edge of the prosthetic arm, feeling the scarring. There’s a synthetic mesh woven into my deltoid and what’s left of the upper arm musculature on that side, anchored to my scapula to support the weight of the arm. There’s some other stuff in there, too, all knitted together with a mass of scar tissue and baling wire.
It hurts when he touches the place where the skin chafes around the point of contact, flesh to metal.
“Yah. Canadian Consolidated Pharmacom. Listed as a destroyed batch. Which answers your first question.”
“Somebody stole it and smuggled it out to sell.”
“Right. Ready for the readings?”
I nod against the headrest. The air slides cold across my back.
“Pinprick,” Simon warns. Frigid alcohol defines a path across my skin, and then the tug and wince of wires going in at the base of my spine, just above the pelvis. A weighty, coiled cord lies on my butt like a snake. So much practiced is Simon that he gets it in on the first try. “Again,” and he links to the nanoprocessor that hugs my cervical vertebrae as well.
Machinery hums—soft, electrical. He touches a plate near my left elbow. I don’t raise my head to look at the readouts. He is silent for an uncomfortably long time. “Problem?”
“Hmmm.”
You never want to hear a doctor, an officer, or a cop make that sound. “Hmmm?” My voice is muffled by the headrest.
I hear him depressing keys. “Sit up, please. Jenny, have you been sleeping with
The office is cold. I’ve spent an awful lot of my life perched on examining tables, and the percentage gets higher every year. I let my question hang on the air, but Simon doesn’t answer. Instead, he turns on the water and starts soaping his arms to the elbow.
I drape my shirt over a straight-backed green plastic chairand unbuckle my holster before skinning my jeans off, too. The boots are already neatly side-by-side on the floor under the chair seat. I keep my undershirt and panties on. I got out of the habit of wearing a bra when my burns were still tender. Never really needed one anyway, except for running.
I change the subject. “Did you get those pills analyzed for me, Simon?”
He turns back as I put my good-side foot on the black rubber step and lift myself up on to the examining table. “I did,” he answers. “Where did you get that stuff, Jenny?”
Lifting my shoulders, I lie facedown on the sterile paper-covered table. “Street.”
His hands are very gentle as he pushes my shirt up over the long-faded ridges of scar running the length of my spine. Cool latex-wrapped fingers find the lumps of the nanoprocessors at the small of my back, the nape of the neck. “Some minor inflammation here, Jen. Any soreness?”
“It hurts less than physical therapy,” I answer.
He grunts. “What doesn’t? What have you been taking for it?”
“The usual. Booze, caffeine, aspirin.”
“You look like you’ve lost weight.”
I sigh and press my face into the padded headrest. Paper crinkles against my forehead and cheek. “I’m clean. Promise. Years now.”
Change the subject.
“Simon, you look tired.”
“I was up late. So how did you happen to get possession of a half-dozen tabs of rigathalonin?”
“It is Hammer?” I am sure he feels me stiffen. “I didn’t take any.”
“Nearly, and I know you didn’t, unless you got really lucky. It’s tainted. A third of the pills.”
“I knew that.”
Three more deaths this week.
“What do you mean nearly?”
“I mean, it’s nearly rigathalonin. It’s a closely relateddrug, at least—and there’s traces of something else in it, too. Probably from inadequately cleaned equipment. Routine testing would have revealed it.”
“So how did it wind up in Hartford? And did you identify a serial number?” I wince as he probes around the edge of the prosthetic arm, feeling the scarring. There’s a synthetic mesh woven into my deltoid and what’s left of the upper arm musculature on that side, anchored to my scapula to support the weight of the arm. There’s some other stuff in there, too, all knitted together with a mass of scar tissue and baling wire.
It hurts when he touches the place where the skin chafes around the point of contact, flesh to metal.
“Yah. Canadian Consolidated Pharmacom. Listed as a destroyed batch. Which answers your first question.”
“Somebody stole it and smuggled it out to sell.”
“Right. Ready for the readings?”
I nod against the headrest. The air slides cold across my back.
“Pinprick,” Simon warns. Frigid alcohol defines a path across my skin, and then the tug and wince of wires going in at the base of my spine, just above the pelvis. A weighty, coiled cord lies on my butt like a snake. So much practiced is Simon that he gets it in on the first try. “Again,” and he links to the nanoprocessor that hugs my cervical vertebrae as well.
Machinery hums—soft, electrical. He touches a plate near my left elbow. I don’t raise my head to look at the readouts. He is silent for an uncomfortably long time. “Problem?”
“Hmmm.”
You never want to hear a doctor, an officer, or a cop make that sound. “Hmmm?” My voice is muffled by the headrest.
I hear him depressing keys. “Sit up, please. Jenny, have you been sleeping with
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