Free The Judas Glass by Michael Cadnum Page A

wears a defibrillator,” said Chief Timm.
    I told him I was sorry to hear that, but that it was wonderful what doctors could do.
    â€œYeah, doctors,” he said, meaning: not lawyers, not cops.
    It was almost noon, and I had that harried, all-too familiar feeling of running late. It was almost a relief, work as painkiller.
    But I did believe in justice. A bridge is a symbol of faith, and a concrete manifestation of human will, and so is the body of law we have inherited, as alive as any other legacy. I half forgot this, but I was always rediscovering what I really felt, like a man surprised into tears or laughter in a movie theater. It happened to me more and more frequently, a feeling of outrage.
    As I drove across the Bay Bridge toward San Francisco my finger was numb, my entire hand losing feeling. When I rested it on my pantleg I could feel it through the wool fabric, cold and lifeless.

11
    My parking place had my name on it, black on a white background. The space was clean, with freshly painted lines, bright yellow. There was a new security setup, little video cameras replacing the old ones which had done so little good.
    San Franciso could be like this, warm sun appearing suddenly, barely smoggy blue overhead. I welcomed the sunshine, taking my time, knowing I was going to be late for lunch with Stella. A man was breaking down cardboard boxes, flattening them. A woman laughed, and someone somewhere above me in a building was whistling a tune.
    My entire arm was without feeling, and I would have sought medical advice except for the attitude Dr. Opal had encouraged me to adopt, that the cut beneath the white bandage was, after all, only a nick. Blood always looks vivid against a white sheet, I found myself thinking. Surely it was not as bad as it looked. I swung my arm, flexing my fingers. The muscles worked, the thumb wiggled back and forth.
    There was a step beside me, and I turned.
    â€œI thought I’d come see your new office,” said Connie.
    She was dressed in clothes I had never seen before, battleship blue skirt, matching jacket. She was wearing more makeup than usual, a new shade of lipstick. She had put effort into her starring role here on the sidewalk.
    â€œAre you all right?” I asked.
    â€œHow do I look?”
    She looked great, but I had no desire to pay her a compliment. I took a certain satisfaction in the thought of her sitting in the car, wondering if I would ever show up. “I always wondered what it would be like to separate from you. How ugly it would be. How hard we would be on each other.”
    She said nothing, looking serene.
    Without being aware of it, I had anticipated talking to her, and been a little anxious about it. It was a relief to have our first words spoken, behind us, the conversation underway. I found myself asking where she had spent the night.
    â€œA hotel,” she said.
    I also deserved a vague answer. “I was a little worried.”
    â€œYou must be joking.”
    The elevator was unoccupied except for the two of us, the doors quietly sliding shut. I pushed the button for the nineteenth floor. The elevator was fast, making me feel a little light-headed.
    â€œI popped by the house,” she said. “I thought you might still be there. Who did you murder? The bed is a mess.”
    I held up my forefinger, and made it take a bow, like a fingerpuppet.
    â€œWhat did you do, cut it off?”
    The elevator slowed and stopped, and there was that briefest moment that so often occurs in elevators. I thought: the elevator door won’t open, and we’ll be trapped. It takes place on a preconscious level, but you know in one part of your mind that what closes might stay shut.
    The door opened to busy people hurrying back and forth in the halls. Handsome people, suits, briefcases were reflected in the floor. Their feet made sounds I had never registered before, squeaks and patters along the waxed surface. We approached the door to my office.