Chapter 12: Wife or Prisoner?

Something cold and damp against his forehead brought Gordon part way out of his unconsciousness finally. There was the softness of a bed under him and the bitter aftertaste of Migrainol on his tongue. He tried to move, but nothing happened. The drug killed pain, but only at the expense of a temporary paralysis of all voluntary motion.

There was a sudden withdrawal of the cooling touch on his forehead, and then hasty steps that went away from him, and the sound of a door closing.

Steps sounded from outside; his door opened, and there was the sound of two men crossing the room, one with the heavy shuffle of Mother Corey.

“No wonder the boys couldn’t find where you’d stashed him, Mother. Must be a bloody big false section you’ve got in that trick mattress of yours!”

“Big enough for him and for Trench, Izzy,” Mother Corey’s wheezing voice agreed. “Had to be big to fit me.”

“You mean you hid Trench out, too?” Izzy asked.

There was a thick chuckle and the sound of hands being rubbed together. “A respectable landlord has to protect himself, Izzy. For hiding and a convoy back, our Captain Trench gave me a paper with immunity from the Municipal Force. Used that, with a bit of my old reputation, to get your Mayor Gannett to give me the same from the Legals. Gannett didn’t want Mother Corey to think the Municipals were kinder than the Legals, so you’re in the only neutral territory in Marsport. Not that you deserve it.”

“Lay off, Mother,” Izzy said sharply. “I told you I had to do it. I take care of the side that pays my cut, and the bloody administration pulled the plug on my beat twice. Only honest thing to do was to join the Legals.”

“And get your rating upped to a lieutenant,” Mother Corey observed. “Without telling cobber Gordon!”

“Like I say, honesty pays, Mother--when you know how to collect. Hell, I figured Bruce would do the same. He’s a right gee.”

Mother Corey chuckled. “Yeah, when he forgets he’s a machine. How about a game of shanks?”

The steps moved away; the door closed again. Bruce Gordon got both eyes open and managed to sit up. The effects of the drug were almost gone, but it took a straining of every nerve to reach his uniform pouch. His fingers, clumsy and uncertain, groped back and forth for a badge that wasn’t there!

He heard the door open softly, but made no effort to look up. The reaction from his effort had drained him.

Fingers touched his head carefully, brushing the hair back delicately from the side of his skull. Then there was the biting sting of antiseptic, sharp enough to bring a groan from his lips. Sheila’s hair fell over her face as she bent to replace his bandages.

Her eyes wandered toward his, and the scissors and bandages on her lap hit the floor as she jumped to her feet. She turned toward her room, then hesitated as he grinned crookedly at her. “Hi, Cuddles,” he said flatly.

She bit her lips and turned back, while a slow flush ran over her face. Her voice was uncertain. “Hello, Bruce. You okay?”

“How long have I been like this?”

“Fifteen hours, I guess. It’s almost midnight.” She bent over to pick up the bandages and to finish with his head. “Are you hungry? There’s some canned soup--I took the money from your pocket. Or coffee...”

“Coffee.” He forced himself up again; Sheila propped the flimsy pillow behind him, then went into her room to come back with a plastic cup filled with brown liquid that passed for coffee here. It was loaded with caffeine, at least.

“Why’d you come back?” he asked suddenly. “You were anxious enough to pick the lock and get out.”

“I didn’t pick it--you forgot to lock it.”

He couldn’t remember what he’d done after he found the badge. “Okay, my mistake. But why the change of heart?”

“Because I needed a meal ticket!” she said harshly. “When I saw that Legal cop ready to take you, I had to go running out to save you. Because I don’t have the iron guts to starve like a Martian!”

It rocked him back on his mental heels. He’d thought that she had been attacking him on the street; but it made more sense this way, at that.

“You’re a fool!” he told her bitterly. “You bought a punched meal ticket. Right now, I probably have six death warrants out on me, and about as much chance of making a living as--”

“I’ll stick to my chances. I don’t have any others now.” She grimaced. “You get things done. Now that you’ve got a wife to support, you’ll support her. Just remember, it was your idea.”

He’d had a lot of ideas, it seemed. “I’ve got a wife who’s holding onto a notebook that belongs to me, then. Where is it?”

She shook her head. “I’m keeping the notebook for insurance. Blackmail, Bruce. You should understand that! And you won’t find it, so don’t bother looking...” She went into the other room and shut the door. There was the sound of the lock being worked, and then silence.

He stared at the door foolishly, swearing at all women; then grimaced and turned back to the chair where his uniform still lay. He could stay here fighting with her, or he could face his troubles on the outside. The whole thing hinged on Trench; unless Trench had shown the badge to others, his problem boiled down to a single man.

Gordon found one tablet of painkiller left in the bottle and swallowed it with the dregs of the coffee. He made sure his knife was in its sheath and that the gun at his side was loaded. He found his police club, checked the loop at its end, and slipped it onto his wrist.

At the door to the hall, he hesitated, staring at Sheila’s room. Wife or prisoner? He turned it over in his mind, knowing that her words couldn’t change the facts. But in the end, he dropped the key and half his money beside her door, along with a spare knife and one of his guns.

He went by Izzy’s room without stopping; technically, the boy was an enemy to all Municipals. This might be neutral territory, but there was no use pressing it. Gordon went down the stairs and out through the seal onto the street entrance, still in the shadows.

His eyes covered the street in two quick scans. Far up, a Legal cop was passing beyond the range of the single dim light. At the other end, a pair of figures skulked along, trying the door of each house they passed. With the cops busy fighting each other, this was better pickings than outside the dome.