Black dog in my head. Guiding me to the end...
I woke to the stutter of a flickering fluorescent light overhead and the distant wail of a siren somewhere in the city night. The ceiling above was cracked, stained a brownish yellow from some ancient leak.
For a second I just stared at those watermarks, trying to remember if I was dead or alive. Pain answered the question quick enough, a dull fire spread across my ribs and through my shoulder, and a sharper spike made me suck in a breath. I was alive, alright. Alive and feeling every inch of my broken body.
The air stank of cheap antiseptic that couldn't quite cover the odors of mildew and old blood. A grimy hospital, by the looks of it. My bed sheets were thin and scratchy, probably recycled a thousand times.
In the weak light I could see my left arm draped across my stomach, covered in bandages where shrapnel or a bullet had torn through. Beneath the gauze, the cybernetic limb twitched sporadically. I tried to squeeze my fingers into a fist; the metal hand responded with a delayed jerk, clenching and unclenching on its own.
Useless damn arm. Every time it trembled, a faint electrical whine followed, reminding me that half my body was more spare parts than flesh. They must have dragged me here after the ambush... It flooded back in disjointed flashes: the dim cryo-lab corridor, the muzzle flare, and her face.
Marlene. I saw Marlene. The memory hit me harder than the pain. I'd know that face anywhere...
The curve of her cheek, the dark eyes that had once looked through me with love. It was Marlene's face, Marlene's eyes, even the little scar on her brow. But she was dead.
I remember freezing in shock, my heart doing a somersault of grief and confusion. Then came the gunfire and searing agony as I went down. The world had turned black with Marlene's name on my lips. Now I was here, alive when I probably shouldn't be, haunted by a face that couldn't be real.
I groaned and pushed myself a bit upright against the flat hospital pillow. My muscles protested. A bandage was wrapped tight around my midsection, blood had seeped through in a small patch.
Probably a through-and-through gunshot wound, maybe worse. It felt like someone had taken a jackhammer to my ribs. I blinked sweat out of my eyes and took inventory: legs shaky but intact, head pounding, left arm glitching and a weight of dread in my chest that outdid the physical wounds. The person who did it... looked like my dead wife.
I needed help. Instinctively, I tried to call Silvio. He was the only one who knew I'd gone to that warehause. I focused, willed the neural comlink to connect. A faint buzz in my right ear.
Silvio? I subvocalized, my throat too dry to speak aloud. There was no reply, not even a static crackle. I tried again, pinging his personal line. Either my comlink was fried from the firefight or Silvio wasn't picking up.
"Damn it," I whispered, voice rasping. The effort set off a coughing fit that lit my insides on fire. I fumbled for a plastic cup on the bedside table and took a sip of lukewarm water. It tasted like dust, but I drank it down anyway.
I tried to stay calm. I set the cup down with trembling hand. My reflection looked like hell. Bruised face, a days-old stubble, eyes shadowed with things no amount of rest would fix.
A shuffle of footsteps sounded out in the hallway. Heavy boots on tile, coming closer. I tensed, my right hand instinctively searching for a sidearm that wasn't there. The footsteps paused just outside my door. A second later, the door creaked open and a familiar silhouette filled the frame.
"Bale?" came a low voice. "You awake?"
I exhaled in relief. Marty. He stepped into the room, letting the door swing shut behind him. Marty looked older than I remembered.
His hair was gray, his face lined like cracked pavement, but he still had that solid, reliable bulk. A cop built like a boulder. He wasn't in uniform; a wrinkled brown overcoat hung off his broad shoulder.
"You gave us one hell of a scare," Marty said as he approached the bed. He dragged a chair over without asking and sat down with a grunt. "How you feeling, partner?"
"Been better," I managed. My voice came out rough. "Could use a new rib cage. Maybe a new spine while I'm at it."
He huffed a dry laugh. "Same old Bale. Bulletproof wiseass." His smile faded as fast as it came. He scanned the monitors by my bed, the half-lit screens reflecting in his eyes. "Doc said you were lucky. Another inch and that slug would've hit something vital. You'd be on a slab downstairs."
"Lucky," I echoed bitterly, tasting the word. I certainly didn't feel lucky. I felt like roadkill someone peeled off the pavement. My gaze drifted to the grimy window where neon from outside danced on the glass. "I shouldn't even be here..."
Marty scratched at the gray stubble on his chin. "Start at the beginning. I only got fragments over the wire. You were found at that warehause 72, the fire broke out but cops where close due to some shooting. Place was another bloodbath for them, they said it might be connected... What the hell were you doing there, Bale? I thought you were out of the game."
"I was... following a lead," I said. In truth, But I spared Marty the details. "It doesn't matter." I swallowed, throat dry again. "I saw one of them, got a real good look." My heart thumped recalling it. I fixed my eyes on Marty. "It was Marlene."
Marty's brows knotted. He leaned forward, not sure he heard right. "Bale... what did you just say?"
"My wife, Marty. Marlene." I spoke the name slowly, as if it were some kind of incantation. It felt strange on my tongue after all these years. I hadn't said her name out loud in a long time. "She was there. I swear it. I saw her face. She... she fired at me." My voice cracked, and I wasn't sure if it was from the rawness in my throat or the tremor in my chest.
Marty sat back heavily. The chair gave a tiny squeal under his bulk. He let out a long breath and rubbed a hand over his mouth. "Christ, Bale... Marlene's gone. She's been gone five years now. You know that better than anyone." His words were gentle, but I heard the wary edge.
I clenched my jaw. "You think I don't damn well know that? I buried her. I visit her grave. But I'm telling you, I saw her. Or someone who looked just like her. Same face, same eyes... "
Marty shook his head slowly. He looked pained. "You nearly bled out, partner. Lost a lot of blood. Took a nasty hit to the head too. Concussion. The doc mentioned possible hallucinations. It could've been... you might have thought you saw her."
I let out a harsh bark of a laugh, which dissolved into a wince. "A hallucination. Sure. That's what you think this is?" I tapped the side of my skull. "I'm crazy now?"
"I didn't say that," Marty muttered. He cast his eyes downward, at the scuffed floor tiles where a roach was making a slow escape from under my bed. "It's just... Marlene's dead, Bale."
I stared at him, frustration boiling in my gut. He wasn't there. He didn't see. But pushing Marty wouldn't help. I forced myself to take a breath, then immediately regretted it as pain lanced my side.
"Maybe you're right," I lied flatly, if only to end this part of the conversation. "Maybe I was seeing things. Must've been the blood loss, huh?"