was good at that. And like his bosses, he thought pulling strings didn't leave fingerprints.
Borland winced again as his muscles cramped around the steel threads.
The sutures on all three hernias still stung-a mess: umbilical, right and left inguinal-both sides of the groin. There were disconcerting ridges of sewn muscle tangled in twists of fat, and post-operative drainage left his scrotum looking like a rotten avocado.
Not much of an improvement.
But even with the pain and discomfort, he couldn't miss some of his old confidence creeping back.
How can you have confidence after what happened?
Because you're a Captain and they're the little people.
He was overcome by a wave of nausea as new memories crowded. Ghosts freshly buried shimmered in his mind.
It didn't go well.
And right on the heels of the Parkerville tunnels and the business with Hyde's daughter-it was almost too much for him.
And then…
The hernia operations were supposed to be simple. Textbook. Easy.
A bore.
Nothing to write home about.
Borland snarled, swung his legs off the couch and poured himself a drink.
He rolled the cool glass over his lips and remembered the clinic.
No. That was bad. The worst.
Things hadn't gone well.
CHAPTER 2
The unmarked cruiser left Borland at the curb with barely a nod or a minute to pull his bags out of the back seat before the driver completed the circular loop of asphalt and tore away. The car pulled out with a lurch that caused Borland's door to swing shut.
That after a long drive through Metro morning rush hour traffic with Borland's guts nagging the whole way. The driver had said little as he navigated the crowded streets.
That would have been fine because Borland didn't want to talk, considering his destination; but it ended up pissing him off because the driver had to know who he was. He had to know something about Borland's past, if not about the recent events in Parkerville.
A week after his release from decontamination, there had been a gathering in the Metro HQ auditorium. Closed to the public, it included a long-winded and rambling speech from Superintendent Midhurst. Brass chipped in with an equally boring talk of lost heroes.
The higher ups had decided to link the squad memorial with Borland, Hyde and Aggie's official reinstatement to active status. Someone up the chain had decided the reactivation of retired captains would somehow seem hopeful against the background of Stationhouse Nine's first devastating win. Lots of people in uniform died so words had to be said, but Parkerville was shut down and the threat slowed if not stopped. The Variant presentations in Metro seemed to be leveling off-for now.
The dead baggies had been cremated long before the memorial, while the surviving squad was still in quarantine.
Borland had felt cheated that they combined the events, and worse that he and Aggie had to share the stage with Hyde's hooded, but scene-stealing mystery. The old cripple had opted to ride his wheelchair to the event, even though Borland had noticed the cuffs and leggings of a new skin-shell suit protruding from his long black coat. He could have walked.
Playing the sympathy card.
He'd seen him at the stationhouse, mostly healed from his wounds, moving on his legs and canes like a mechanical toy.
But he got back into the chair for the big night.
Borland had trouble narrowing it down, especially since he'd consumed the better part of a mickey before the event, but there was something different about Hyde as he rolled across the stage.
He wouldn't say 'confidence,' but there was something in the way the freak held himself that spoke of willing compromise. If Borland didn't know better, he might have thought it was pride.
Hyde didn't save his daughter but he had tried. Was that all it took?
Just trying?
I'll have to try it some time…
Memory of Hyde's daughter caused a twinge of guilt, caused Borland's chest to cramp and draw him gasping back to reality.
He'd done some terrible things.
And Brass knew most of it.
But not all and the information they shared created a checkmate.
Nobody could talk. Or everybody had to.
Borland realized he was still in place, glaring down the driveway after the cruiser.
A thought had struck him: The driver acts like he knows…
But Borland knew his first years of service back in the day had enough uncomfortable truths and rumors attached to warrant some suspicion if not outright disdain or hostility.
Never get a break.
He winced as he hefted his bags and turned. The action brought a hard and painful tug from his hernias.
Borland stood where the flattened wheelchair curb led up to a short sidewalk that crossed a narrow lawn to the front of the building.
It didn't look like much. But that was a trick of the eye.
He knew from the website that the Shomberg Clinic was a sprawling complex of hospital rooms, dining areas and operating theaters hidden behind a 'false front' like the fake western streets in movie studio backlots.
This false front consisted of a main door and entrance arranged center to a set of four 30-foot pillars holding a paneled cupola that bore a spotlight pointed at the sidewalk. This would shine down where the circular drive met the walk. The driveway formed a tight oval around a bricked-in strip of grass bearing three crowded flower gardens.
The gardens reminded Borland of corsages.
The doorway and cupola were set on a large white-paneled building with black shuttered windows. It resembled a large house, its gaudy entrance crowded by tall thick cedars. All of it was intended to evoke a colonial country charm but managed to remind Borland of a southern Civil War plantation house, slaves and secrets. A closer look showed him fake cedar shingle over aluminum siding, and false masonry glued to concrete.
Nothing old under the sun.
Coming in the drive, he'd already noticed the willows, blue spruce and pines that towered in groups around the property; giving the grounds a country club feel.
Paused before the entrance now, Borland could hear the unnerving repetitive action of many sprinklers: Hiss. Ssskin. Skin. Skin. Skin. Click. Hiss. Skin. Skin. Skin…
Everywhere water spurted or sprayed from spigots and sprinklers. A small army of people in blue coveralls tended the plumbing, moved about the grass and spring gardens with purpose.
On both sides of the winding drive coming in, Borland had seen sections and segments of brownstone wall construction with cedars and gardens hugging them tight. The fortifications suggested a maze, defense and battle.
And confusion.
