Elizabeth Bear - Hammered

Mobarak gnawed his lip. “I suppose. I’m very busy, of course”— aren’t they always —“but I can certainly make time for Hartford’s finest. Can we keep it brief?”

The security guard got close enough to make out the badge and relaxed incrementally. Mitch shot him a smile and got a slight nod in return. “Absolutely, Dr. Mobarak. And thank you.”

The guard held the door for them as they went inside. Mobarak was a neurologist; Mitch knew that much from Maker’s — from Genevieve’s —medical history. He also knew a lot of other things now, although he couldn’t rightly say he understood half of the medical stuff. He did know that her service record was impressive, however, and he’d used that information to pull up the details on her moment of infamy: the Xu trial.

And that had blown his socks out through the holes in his shoes.

According to the court records, some twenty years before, Corporal Casey had been approached by representatives of a terrorist cell. Acting under orders, she had infiltrated the group and brought down most of the leaders. Two of the medals in her trunk had been awarded for that incident, and Mitch had noticed that the presentation cases were still sealed shut.

Her testimony had been instrumental in obtaining the conviction of their leader, and three consecutive life sentences — despite the tenor of the day. Which, Mitch was learning, had been a bit different than modern times. Despite the teasing he’d given her, Mitch realized he’d never thought of Maker as anything more than an enigmatic old woman with a conscience and a lot of friends. Learning that she was a bonafide war hero — well. He hadn’t yet been born when Genevieve Casey had been in Toronto, recovering from having most of her left arm blown off with a shotgun, serving in whatever capacity she was still capable.

That gave him a little bit of pause if he thought about it hard, so he didn’t. He had a murder to solve. Maybe a few more to prevent. And he was starting to think he had a friend to protect — whether she wanted his help or not.

He held his tongue while Mobarak keyed them into the office, waiting until the door was latched behind them. Then he took a breath, ready for a fight. I’m willing to bet he thinks of her as more than a patient, too. She’s got that — ability to inspire loyalty. I bet she was a damned good sergeant. Mitch knew why that was. Because despite all the doubts of his rational mind, Mitch still suspected that Maker would put herself between him and a bullet.

Bitching the entire time. “Doc, how well do you know Genevieve Casey?”

He wasn’t expecting the doctor to slowly turn around, slipping his key into his pocket, and chuckle. “Somehow, I knew this was going to be about her. What’s she been accused of?”

Mitch shook his head. “It’s not that at all. Doctor… hell.” He wasn’t sure what it was, but something about Mobarak’s half-amused, half-annoyed expression and significant glance at the wall clock put him at ease. “I’m a stupid shit, Doc, and I’m going to trust you. I’m here mostly as a friend of Maker’s — of Casey’s — and only half as a cop. She’s in trouble and I want to find out what sort, so I can back her up. Do you believe me?”

And if I find out I’m wrong, and she had something to do with Mashaya getting shot, I’ll put the bullet in her head myself.

“What kind of trouble?”

“Vanishing without leaving a forwarding address and ditching her friends kind of trouble.”

“Kidnapped?”

“Not… as such.” Mitch shrugged. “She went with somebody. As far as I know there was no threat of force. But that’s not the only kind of duress.”

Mobarak thought about it for a long while before he answered. “I can’t share confidential information with you, of course.”

“Of course,” Mitch answered, and realized that he’d been holding his breath. “Look, Doc. How long have you got to talk?”

Mobarak shrugged. “Half an hour. I’ll make the time. I feel really bad about Jenny. She’s been through a lot, and she’s awful brave about it. It’s unprofessional, but…”

Mitch grinned. “You get attached. Yeah, I know. Me, too. Come on, let’s make some coffee or something.”

“There’s a break room around the corner.” Mobarak waved Mitch ahead. Industrial gray carpeting scuffed under his loafers. The door was locked; Mobarak keyed them in. “Do you take anything in your coffee?”

“Black.”

“You do know Jenny.” Mobarak pressed the button on the coffeemaker. It whirred, weighing and grinding beans. Steam hissed, and the musky, silky aroma filled the room.

“Jenny? That’s what you call her?”

“It’s her name.” The doctor shrugged, pulling plain, too-small ceramic mugs from the cabinet over the sink. “She’s been kind enough to donate a lot of time to my research. We go way back.”

“Huh.” Mitch accepted the mug that the doctor extended to him. It warmed the palms of his hands when he cupped it, and — sudden odd thought — he wondered if Maker ever missed that sensation. “I never would have thought her the sort for charity work. No, actually, I’m full of shit, Doc.”

“What do you mean?” Mobarak lounged against the counter, stirring his own drink with a plastic straw.

“Oh, Maker. I always thought she was an army doc or medic of some kind. She’s always fixing up some kid with a busted finger or something. Amazing she finds the time to keep her business running.”

“She was an EMT,” Mobarak answered. “I suppose I can tell you that. Special forces first. When she returned to active duty, she managed to pull a combat exemption and flew medevac.”

Mitch nodded, smiling. “I just found that out yesterday, actually, along with all sorts of other things I didn’t know. And I’m guessing she’s really sick now because of it, isn’t she?”

The doc took a big breath and held it — confirmation — but shook his head. “You know I can’t tell you that.”

“All right.” Mitch swirled strong, hot coffee around his mouth, swallowed, and sucked his teeth. Thank God this guy sucks at keeping confidentiality. “Look, do you know anything about her having a sister?”

“No next of kin, as far as I’ve heard. She’s got an emergency contact listed, but it’s a friend in Montreal. An old army buddy, I think.”

“Well, fuck.”

“Huh. Is this only about Jenny, Detective?”

“No.” Mitch turned aside and kicked the leg of the cheap card table shoved into the corner. “I think whatever has her on the run has something to do with my… with a friend of mine, a fellow officer. Who got killed.” He heard the pain in his own voice and despised it for a weakness.

Whatever. Mobarak took a rattling breath. “Look.” The doctor shook his head. “She mentioned you to me. If you’re the same Mitch. And I can’t — I can’t share information with you. I’m already over the line.”

Mitch heard the but in his voice and leaned forward, holding his breath, blinking hard before he glanced back up and caught the doctor’s eye. He nodded, afraid to encourage him.

“But I’ll call that contact. See what I can do about getting her a message. Okay?”

It would have to do.

Thirteen years ago:

in the Heavy Iron

University of Guelph

Tuesday 7 June, 2049

1:00 P.M.

“I am not,” he said at last, “Richard Feynman.”

If the coffee Elspeth was sipping had been real, it would have come out of her nose. “Excuse me?”

The physicist smiled and ran a hand through tousled gray hair. “Because Richard Feynman died fifty-three years ago.”