Painkiller tve-2 Read online

  Judy glared at him. The barrel of the gun centered on his face. "Don't listen to them."

  "See, I think you lost your baby," he said, "and the operation started something in your head. And now you're sick with sadness. There's nothing wrong with that."

  "I didn't lose my baby," Judy said, tears shining in her eyes. "What kind of a person, what kind of a mother would do that? Lose something so precious. I'd go to hell for that!"

  "You're only human," Borland wheezed and dragged a foot up. His guts bulged out of the wound and he grunted. More blood spilled.

  He wasn't going to make it. A peaceful resolution to a hostage situation could take hours he didn't have.

  … a finesse he'd never learned.

  "Look, unless…" His eyebrows formed a thoughtful line. "Wait a minute, go to hell? "

  "That's what happens," Judy explained, "to bad mothers."

  "It doesn't Judy," Borland gasped, the pain was breaking him. Tears rolled out of his eyes.

  "Yes it does!" Judy insisted.

  "You must belong to one of those nutty churches," Borland said, and a sob shook him. The muscles in his torso ground against each other. "That send people to hell for anything."

  Don't do it…

  "I'm Catholic…" Judy's eyes softened for a second.

  "Even those bastards won't send you to hell for losing a baby," Borland chewed on his lip as a spasm of pain shook him. More tears fell. "Unless…"

  "That's enough!" She glared at him and held the pistol at his face.

  Oh god, don't do it.

  "Judy, I thought it was postpartum depression, but now I think it's just depression," Borland said and shrugged painfully. He was getting dizzier. "Maybe it's the Variant Effect too, but I think it's mostly guilt."

  "Quiet!" The gun shook in Judy's hand.

  Do what you have to do."

  "You didn't lose your baby, Judy," Borland growled.

  "Shut up!" she screamed.

  "You aborted it," he snarled.

  "Shut up!" Judy shouted and slipped another hand around the gun to steady it. "You don't know what you're talking about!"

  Just do it.

  "I don't care one way or another. But as a Catholic you're damned and as a cop you'll condemn yourself for being human." Borland tried to sit forward but was overcome with nausea. His heart throbbed heavily. "I can't see a way out for you."

  "Judy?" Dr. Lemington called through the door.

  Judy looked over, and then back at Borland.

  "See," she said. "They turned you against me."

  "Jesus!" he yelled, eyes full of tears. "Judy either put me out of my misery, murder Mr. Cumberland or do what you have to do!" He winced rolling to his knees. "You know there's only one person in the room that's got this coming!"

  Judy aimed the gun and pulled the trigger.

  CHAPTER 12

  That was then. This is now.

  Borland sat on his couch sipping whiskey and watching the blue screen. Zombie's comic book lay crumpled on the couch beside him.

  Judy…

  It was easy for Brass's scientists to biopsy her brain. She'd conveniently opened her skull for them. They found the Variant molecule there, but in quantities that suggested it should be dormant. And there was no sign of the new thirteenth hybrid molecule they'd found in Parkerville.

  She was a kinderkid but had never presented. A worrier, a bit of a nail-biter, but nothing you could put your finger on. Nothing outside the norm or dangerous.

  Unlikely Variant, so it was guilt that presented, that drove her to extremes.

  Judy was a uniformed Metro cop for eight years with the dream of finding a nice fellow, settling down and becoming a mother.

  Her dream came true.

  But not for her ambitious boyfriend, another uniformed Metro cop. He had his eyes set on promotions and so he declared their love-child a little premature-maybe later after the wedding. They could try again.

  Pressure was applied-ultimatums issued. And dreams collided.

  Judy should never have agreed to the abortion.

  The guilt caused her to fight and ruined her relationship before the marriage. That sent her into a tailspin that ended with her on indefinite leave from the force riding a psychiatrist's couch.

  In and out of mental hospitals, some time in there she developed an inguinal hernia.

  Then, something went right. She got the right mix of meds. Maybe she met a fellow, but things were on the upswing-she decided to fix the hernia so she could get back to the gym, lose some weight and feel better about herself. Maybe grow a new dream.

  But something went wrong at the Shomberg Clinic. Her antidepressant mixed with shame and painkillers, and she took a guilt trip that almost killed Borland.

  When she shot herself, Borland started calling to the SWAT team. They rammed the lock off the door and entered, guns on Borland and Mr. Cumberland.

  The old bugger finally woke up when they knocked.

  He asked for a drink of water. Cumberland had his operation while Borland was waiting for his turn downstairs. The old man's pain meds had kept him asleep through Judy's assault on reality.

  That said a lot for Borland. His doctors were impressed, said it was remarkable that he'd been able to stay conscious through all that pain, medication and blood loss.

  He was weeping like a little girl when they did come in, but the SWAT guys cut him some slack because he looked like something that had escaped from a slaughterhouse.

  Borland was given transfusions and stabilized, and at his request; they completed the hernia procedures over the next couple of days. Another request he made was to Brass who pulled those strings again and managed to have an armed guard of baggies stay on site to accompany Borland through the operations.

  The hernias ruled his life for the next three weeks. During their reign he managed to stay drunk from late morning until midnight. He knew he'd put most of the weight back on, but his experience with Judy had reminded him that he wasn't going to be around forever.

  And he'd been a really good boy.

  Well, except for what he'd said to Judy. What he'd made her do…

  Probably the best way to resolve the situation. It was the only justice she was going to get from herself. Society wouldn't give a damn about it.

  Good excuse.

  He pondered again whether he would have waited for the situation to resolve itself if he were the leader of the SWAT team. The doctors must have told them there was time, that Borland's condition; his wound wasn't going to be instantly fatal. He would suffer like hell, but…

  They were willing to wait, to make a wager that Borland would have to pay.

  He was never like that in the squads, and he tried to instill the attitude in new recruits: Gamble with your own life if you want.

  But don't gamble with mine!

  The television remote controller rang, snapping Borland from his reverie. He slashed and slapped out at the coffee table, finally managed to catch the multi-function device. He picked it up, pressed the 'talk' button and held it to his ear.

  "Yeah," he said, in a voice that was thick with emotion.

  "Captain Borland?" A woman's voice chirped.

  "Who's asking?" Borland set his glass down and refilled it.

  "I am Natasha Drummond, secretary to David White, president of GreenMourning Environmental," she said. "Are you familiar with our work?"

  "Who isn't?" Borland grunted.

  "Mr. White would like to talk to you," she said and went quiet.

  "No," Borland grumbled. "Mr. White knows that's a conflict of interest for me or anyone in my place of employment. GreenMourning and the Variant Squads don't exactly see eye to eye."

  "It doesn't have to be that way," she said.

  Borland scowled at the blue screen.

  "Mr. White appreciates the sensitivity of the situation and that is why he wants to meet with you in his car." The secretary went quiet again. "Discreetly. Downstairs. We're parked out front."


  "What's this about?" Borland felt a surge of anger. More mysteries . He kicked his legs, stormed up onto his feet. He moved to the window, glared out…and started zipping up his jumper.

  Three stories down, a woman's hand waved to him from the rear window of a long black sedan.

  "You come highly recommended by a friend of Mr. White's." There was silence before: "The late Robert Spiko sent him your palm-com." Borland imagined her smiling, and then… "Mr. Spiko recorded a message on it for you."

  "I'll be right down," Borland growled, staring blankly at the glass, catching his own vague reflection there.

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