[AlexG]

Kinda niche of the growth fiction genre given the dearth of stories, but the topic came up in random DuckDuckGo search w/ an entry @ the Evolutionary Forum Archive, which one of the posters mentioned Brawna.org in passing as a source and another (the last post in the thread) included links to a story by Capeman – Anna’s Formula.

Link: https://archive.muscle-growth.org/threads/69278-p1.html

Outside of myself, I can only think off hand of one other person that has delved into the subject of M/F growth fiction stories – that being Hi-Standard w/ “Boomfood” and “The Inheritors”.

That said, are there any others?

“I like a good story well told. That is the reason I am sometimes forced to tell them myself.”
~ Mark Twain / Samuel Clemens (1907)

[FfejL]

Musclelust by The Power Company (https://www.thevalkyrie.com/stories/power/musclab.txt) comes close. The male has already undergone MMG when the story opens, the FMG happens in the story. It’s a personal fave.

Do you have links to Hi-Standards stuff?

[AlexG]

Musclelust by The Power Company (https://www.thevalkyrie.com/stories/power/musclab.txt) comes close. The male has already undergone MMG when the story opens, the FMG happens in the story. It’s a personal fave.

Do you have links to Hi-Standards stuff?

If you mean those two in particular, no – I don’t believe that they are/were saved anywhere on-line.

That said, however, I will repost them here @ Amaz0ns when I get the time. B)

“I like a good story well told. That is the reason I am sometimes forced to tell them myself.”
~ Mark Twain / Samuel Clemens (1907)

[El_Roy_1999]

I have written a few stories that include MMG, however, the focus is usually FMG.

Birds of a Feather (Should be right up your alley)
https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/873772

Trust (This one too)
https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/842370

By the Cold Sea (A murder mystery!)
https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/605475

The Titans
https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/678271

The Potions (includes futa)
https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/724152

Growing with a Friend (The titular story)
https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/730131

[Ashlee]

LH ART HAS BUNDEL SETS OF THERE COMICS AT ROCK BOTTOM PRICES
CHECK THEM OUT AND ORDER UP WHEN THERE GONE THERE GONE!
https://www.lhart.com/catBundle.htm

[AlexG]

I have written a few stories that include MMG, however, the focus is usually FMG.

Just myself, I’ve usually given equal consideration to both sexes and interestingly,
discovered that its far more appealing to women readers.

“I like a good story well told. That is the reason I am sometimes forced to tell them myself.”
~ Mark Twain / Samuel Clemens (1907)

[El_Roy_1999]

Cool! I wasn’t aware that this was a fetish that attracted female readers. But if it is, I’m quite willing to write some muscular men into them as well.

[AlexG]

~~ Editors Note ~~

Other then basic conversion / formatting from Hotboards / Adultboards text to that of MS Word in which it was preserved the incomplete story is as Hi-Standard originally posted in 2000 on ZZZ’s Everything Grows forum. Therefore, any discovered errors in spelling, punctuation, grammar or story content are purely his responsibility and not mine.

Lastly, given the carnal scenes, I’m flagging this story as . . .

(Drum Roll Sound Effect)

**NOT SAFE FOR WORK**

**********

THE INHERITORS
By Hi-Standard © 2000

Part One

Jacob Matthews winced as he left the main entrance to Mercy Hospital and Medical Center. The wind coming out of the darkness off Lake Michigan was raw and cold. It swept across the hospital esplanade, rattling the bare limbs of the trees and whirling scraps of paper into the light cast by the ornate cast-iron lampposts along the walkways. The weather forecasters had warned that the incoming storm would be the first serious winter weather downtown Chicago had suffered this year. What a genius for understatement, Jake thought—sharp pellets of sleet pricked and stung his already-cold ears. For a native-born Chicagoan his intolerance to the annual cold of winter was unusual to say the least, he thought with resigned self-deprecation. He had to be outside in order for his wife to find him for the drive home but any length of time in the elements like this and he would be a classic victim of frostbite. He stepped as quickly as the conditions allowed. Precipitation rattled loudly against the fabric of his coat and fell hiss on the sidewalk around him. The nearby bus kiosk was well lit and occupied only by a couple of other people—ideal for him to be out of the weather yet able to be spotted from the street. He moved quickly, dodging people walking towards him with hands and hat brims over their eyes as shields against the elements.

Jake uttered a grateful sigh as he stepped within the shelter of the kiosk. He nodded a pleasant greeting to the other two occupants, an elderly couple, well-dressed, who were sitting close together on the graffiti-covered bench that ran the length of the shelter. A slant of wind found its way into the kiosk, chilling him to the bone. He began to pace back and forth, his eyes darting from side to side as he peered at the traffic moving deliberately along the street in the hope of glimpsing his wife’s car. The urge to mentally condemn his ten-year old Totyota surfaced inside him again—with typical ingenuity it had picked this morning to refuse to start—but he squelched it down, shaking his head at his own childishness. He knew it was fatigue occasioned by his 16-hour stint at the hospital that was making him cranky. His third year of residency at Mercy was as intense and wearying as the previous two years. He made himself think of the light at the end of the tunnel, when he would get his Board certification next year and become Jacob Matthews, M.D., Doctor of Internal Medicine. Then things would be different—he would be able to buy a home and set up his own practice, and be able to do the things he kept promising himself he would do for his wife and himself.

“Pardon me, but are you looking for someone?” a low, penetrating voice said. The old man was peering at Jake from under shaggy, mouse-colored eyebrows. His features were regular, yet curiously striking, with broad cheekbones, a strong, well-defined jaw and a near-perfectly-proportional nose. His cheeks were a warm red color, as were his ears—evidence that he had been out in the weather longer than Jake. More surprising to Jake were his eyes—a clear blue in color and lacking any sclera or cataract a physician would expect to see in a person his age. Jake felt an immediate concern for the old couple being out in weather like this. The old man must have seen Jake’s worry on his face. He smiled, revealing a set of strong white teeth. Jake found himself smiling back as he nodded.

“Waiting for my wife,” he replied. “Car broke down this morning.”

The old man nodded. “Bad luck.”

Jake shrugged and grinned. “Good thing my wife has a car, too. Otherwise it’d be the bus for me tonight.”

The old man returned Jake’s smile. He paced once more. A single car—a late-model Chevy Blazer—among the throng of vehicles now inching their way along the street caught his attention, and he waved. The Blazer slowed, it’s turn indicator flashing.

“That your wife?” the old man asked. Jake nodded. He noticed that the old man was holding the hands of the woman sitting beside him. As she raised her head for the first time Jake found himself immediately charmed. She looked like anyone’s favorite aunt and still possessed a considerable amount of what must have been a marvelous beauty. The old couple clearly were husband and wife and probably had been so for a very long time. Seeing them as a couple made Jake think of his own marriage. His smile was unabashed and admiring.

“Yes,” he replied. “It’ll be eleven months tomorrow.”

“You married young,” the woman observed. Her voice was another pleasant surprise, soft and bell-like. Jake’s smile got wider and he nodded again.

“How long have you two been married?” he asked. The woman turned to look at her husband. They did not speak for a few seconds, and Jake saw a smile grow on both their faces. He could not help the impression that the two were sharing some amusing observation between them.

“A very long time,” the old man replied.

The man looked away from Jake for a moment. His face fell instantly into a sad, almost frightened expression. It was startling. Jake followed her gaze. People were still walking slowly by, and there were a few indifferently-clad loiterers under the streetlights and in the shelter of the brick gateposts bordering the hospital entrance, but he could see no overt threat that could frighten him. He turned back to look at the couple. The woman had reached up to stroke the cheek of the old man. Jake saw him obey her unspoken injunction and bend his head for a gentle smooch. She smiled at him. It was a sad smile. Jake’s concern rose higher as she visibly shivered. He dropped to his knee beside the couple.

“Are you all right?” he asked. “Do you need help with anything?”

The woman shook her head. “We’re fine, young man, but thank you for asking. It’s very nice of you to ask, isn’t it dear?”
“Yes, it is,” the old man replied. Another gust of wind circumvented the protective barrier of the shelter and she shivered again. Jake clapped his bare hand to his ear to warm it.

“Honey, what’s going on?” a familiar voice said. Jake looked up to see his wife standing over him. Karen Matthews was small, almost dainty. Her dark, almond-shaped eyes and short-cut, thick black hair revealed her Asian ancestry. Above her heavy black shoes the Navy blue uniform pants were flapping in the wind against her legs and a bulky, same-color vinyl coat was zippered to her neck. The clothing looked incongruous on her neat, trim frame. Her uniform hat with its checkerboard headband completed her attire as a Chicago police officer. She bent in the middle and touched Jake’s shoulder, unspoken questions in her eyes. Jake rose to his feet and took her hand.

“I’m sorry, darling,” he replied, “but I was just speaking to these people. I’m a little concerned about them.”

He turned back to look at the couple. He stopped short as he saw the expression on their faces. Both the man and woman wore broad, blissful smiles as they looked up from the bench at Karen and himself. Karen had quickly adopted the same concerned attitude towards them and she stepped to Jake’s side, reaching out to touch the woman’s shoulder.

“Oh, look dear,” the man said. “Look how bright they are.”

“Yes!” the woman exclaimed. “Yes, they are.”

Jake was startled. One minute there were two elderly people sitting huddled together against the cold on a mean plastic bench in a bus shelter, the next there was a pair of healthy, animated oldsters shaking each other’s hand as they looked up and his wife and himself. Karen was smiling at their reaction—she was as enchanted as he had been previously. The woman intercepted her hand, taking it into both of her own.

“How do you do,” she said. “My name is Margaret, Margaret Weber.”

“Officer Karen Matthews,” Karen replied. Something in her voice was strange, almost distracted. Jake was about to turn and see why when the old man extended his hand towards him. Jake automatically took it.

“How do you do,” the old man said. His voice had a deep, almost resonant ring to it, even in the wind that had curiously risen in strength and now seemed to howl through the shelter. “My name is Douglas Weber.”

“Jake Matthews,” Jake replied. He blinked. It was remarkable just how big the old man’s hand was—it seemed to swallow his up. His surprise turned to shock as the old man rose to his feet—he seemed to extend before his eyes, lengthening and stretching, rising higher and higher into the air. In a second the man was towering over Jake’s five foot, seven-inch frame—and he was still unfolding his limbs. Jake heard a small squeak of astonishment and realized it came from himself. Almost as an afterthought he saw that the woman had also risen to her feet. God, she looked like she had to bend almost double to fit under the overhang of the shelter, her head and shoulders high over his wife. His hand was now swallowed up over his wrist and halfway up his forearm by Weber’s huge, massive fist. Jake craned his neck to meet the old man’s eyes. Weber was bent over him, a gigantic, towering presence. For a fraction of a second a look of profound sadness filled his face. Then he smiled down at Jake and nodded. As Jake looked up the hat covering the giant’s head was blown off by the wind that swirled around them. A small part of Jake’s mind wondered how it could be so quiet, with all the wind around them flapping his pantlegs and blowing the old man’s shoulder-length hair around his head. Weber nodded as if coming to a decision.

“You will win. You two will be all right,” he said. Jake felt his grip tighten—

Jake shook his head. He was walking slowly, Karen holding onto his arm. The wind was blowing from behind with enough force to hurry them down the sidewalk towards the corner of 26th Street and Michigan Avenue.

“Huh? Jake?” Karen said suddenly. She tugged at his arm, bringing him to a halt. She looked as though she were coming out of a short nap.

“Honey, are you okay?” Jake asked.

“Yes. Yes, I think so,” she replied. Her face fell into a frown. “Jake, did something just happen?”

“No, I—I don’t think so,” Jake replied. A slant of wind whipped sleet into his eyes. It stung. Karen saw him wince. She reached up and touched his cheek.

“Oh, you’re like ice,” she said. Jake felt blood rush into his face at her touch. It was pleasant, and he smiled. She snorted.

“Some Doctor,” she growled with mock seriousness. “Don’t know any better than to stand out in the middle of a snowstorm. Come on, I’m going to have to take care of you.”

Jake’s smile grew broader. He was about to turn back onto their course towards Karen’s car when something caught his eye. He looked back at the bus shelter near the now-distant entrance to the hospital pavilion. He had been waiting there for Karen, hadn’t he? With the sleet (and now snow, he noticed, as flakes were driven into his eyes by the wind) half-blinding him it was hard to tell, but he thought he could make out two small figures huddled together under the glare of the fluorescent lighting in the kiosk. For some reason he felt he had to go back, but the thought passed. He was very tired, he realized. Karen had also turned and was looking in the same direction as he. She frowned, then her expression cleared. Her mouth fell into an “o” of concern as she saw that her husband looked half-drowned from the melted snow covering his head. She smiled again and tugged him back onto the path leading to her car and home.

Karen used her police driving skills to good effect, making excellent time on their journey to their home in the suburb of Cicero. It seemed to take no time at all before their co-op duplex showed through the mixture of sleet and snow. The complex manager was typically attentive, scattering rock salt and sand along the walks leading to each co-op owner’s door. Five minutes later found them inside their home, shaking the drops from their coats. Karen quickly took charge, steering Jake through the kitchen-dinette and into their livingroom to sit him on the couch.

“I want to help,” he protested. Karen touched her finger to his lips.

“You’ve been on your feet longer than me,” she replied, a touch of asperity in her tone. Jake seized her hand in both of his and kissed her outstretched fingers, one at a time.

“Ooh,” Karen said. A broad smile lit her face and Jake saw a sparkle in her eyes that he knew was reserved for him alone. “Mmmm. Now, stop that and do what the nice police officer tells you. You look hungry.”

“I have all I need right here,” he replied, pulling on her arm to bring her wrist within range of his lips. Karen wriggled under his kisses, an utterly un-policelike giggle escaping her. Jake prepared to pull her down to him when a loud gurgle erupted from his middle.

“I think your stomach has a different idea,” Karen said, laughing now. She leaned forward to bring her lips next to his ear. “Dessert will come later.”

This time it was Jake’s turn to murmur appreciatively. Karen slipped from his grasp and moved back towards the kitchen. Jake did not miss how her butt swayed as she moved. He offered her a comedian’s animal growl.

“How was your day?” Karen asked conversationally as she opened the refrigerator. Jake stretched his limbs.

“Same old, same old,” he replied. “Two surgeries this morning—appendectomy and a heart by-pass, three chambers. Made the rounds on the fifth floor medical wards, then did eight hours in the trauma center—two heart attacks, one traffic accident, one broken bone, and a stabbing. The stabbing was rough, but we got him through.” Jake stopped himself as his mind went over all of the things he had done during the day. God, it seemed more involved than one sentence could justify. “Bad news is, I’m on the night watch in the ER tomorrow. How was yours?”

“Wonderfully quiet,” Karen said, raising her voice to be heard over the clatter of crockery. Jake heard several electronic beeps that told how his wife was using the microwave they had just bought two weeks ago. “Spend most of the day trying to stakeout that daylight burglar who’s been cleaning out all the apartments along hotel row. You’re on nights again?”

Jake was about to reply when the ding of the microwave interrupted them. Jake quickly joined Karen in the dinette, where they continued their conversation around the leftovers she had heated. Jake did not object to a quick glass of wine after the victuals, which Karen offered along with a long, enticing kiss.

“Enjoy. Be right back,” she said as they broke, smoothing away his disappointment with her fingers. Jake blew a kiss after her as she slinked, wineglass in hand, past the living area and down the short hall that led to their bedroom. After a moment he heard water running. The sound did not stop after a few minutes, so he rose to his feet to investigate. Karen had started a bath, the water steaming as it rushed into the huge cast-iron bathtub that stood in the center of their bathroom on gilded ball-and-claw feet.
“Honey, what’s this—” Jake began. Karen glided into sight from the bedroom. She had swiftly yielded her uniform and was now wearing a cotton nightshirt that ended at her thighs and clung to her hips in just the right way. Jake felt an idiot’s grin crease his face as he saw no panty line under the shirt.

“Come here, and do what the nice police lady tells you,” Karen said, taking hold of him with one hand while sipping her wine with the other.

“Yes, ma’am,” Jake replied. Karen drew him into the bedroom and began stripping him, moving slowly and surely. By the time she had finished unbuttoning his shirt and began to undo his belt his biological reaction was becoming obvious in the front of his slacks. Karen lifted one eyebrow appreciatively.

“I’m not helpless, you know,” Jake offered. Karen shook her head.

“Shhh,” she remonstrated. Jake ran his hands down her shoulders. “Stop that. Dessert comes later. Relax for now.” She let his pants fall to his ankles, revealing his tented underwear. A devilish grin creased her face. “Well, almost relax. I’ll want that later.”

“You vixen,” Jake whispered. He slipped his hands from her shoulders and brushed across her front, rubbing her nipples.

“Ooh, you Casanova,” she giggled. She stripped him completely. “Now, into the tub.”

The water in the tub was just at the right level. Jake sighed in delight as the hot water helped ease the tension in his body. Karen began to knead the muscles in his neck and shoulders. Jake almost purred under her ministrations.

“Honey?”

“Yes?”

“Did I say I love you today?”

“Yes. Four times.”

“I love you five times.”

Karen stopped rubbing his neck long enough to peck him on his ear. Jake took her hand and pulled her around the tub until she stood beside it, bending over him. Jake kissed her wrist and palm again, slowly and long. Karen hummed for a moment, then bent deeply to fix her lips on his.

“You warmed up now, Doctor?” she whispered. Jake nodded.

“Almost.” He grabbed Karen’s shoulders and pulled. Karen tumbled into the tub in a tangle of arms and legs, elbowing Jake in the ribs. Water cascaded over the lip of the tub and splashed loudly on the floor.

“Hey!” Karen said. Jake pulled her close to him, ignoring the pain in his ribs. Karen tried to struggle out of his grasp and nearly succeeded. She turned enough to see his grin.

“Who’s going to clean up the mess?” she demanded. Jake’s grin grew bigger.

“I will,” he replied. He angled himself to meet her lips. They kissed. Jake felt the toned muscles in her buttocks and back relax as she surrendered to his grasp. She nibbled at his lips, exciting him still more. He felt her wriggle against his erection.

“Shall we retire?” she asked suggestively. Jake shook his head and tightened his hold across her shoulders. Her nightshirt was soaked through, revealing her slim form underneath. Even with the warm water lapping across her chest he saw her nipples become erect. Jake felt a affection for his wife flood through him—affection, and love, and desire, and protectiveness and every other emotion that he felt when he looked at her, or held her, or thought about her. He kissed her gently on the cheek.

“Can we wait a while?” he asked softly. “I really like holding you in my arms.”

Karen wriggled more, then relaxed completely. She kissed his hand.

“I love you five times, my darling,” she said.

“I like a good story well told. That is the reason I am sometimes forced to tell them myself.”
~ Mark Twain / Samuel Clemens (1907)

[AlexG]

Part Two

Jake woke suddenly. He blinked in the predawn light filtering through the curtains across the windows in his bedroom. The first thing that came to his notice was the warm, pleasant weight lying atop him. Karen was still asleep, her arms wrapped around him and her hair piled in a mass on his throat. Memory of last night warmed him even more. Karen had used her hands and voice to soothe away the tensions from his long day at the hospital and her love and affection for him had recharged his flagging energies like magic, to the point where he swept her up in his arms and took his surprised, giggling wife to bed. More pleasant was the long interlude before slumber finally claimed them both. Karen had snuggled close to him and began to touch him with her hands and lips, bringing an agreeably swift biological response. They made love with a boisterousness that surprised them both, and when Jake felt strong enough to offer more of the same Karen had enthusiastically assented. Their bedside alarm clock had told that they had kept up their calisthenics until four in the morning before Karen had softened into her own slumber with him still inside her and he had fallen asleep a moment afterward.

Exercise is good for you, Jake thought with a smile as he realized that neither of them had moved during the night. He drank in the scent of his wife’s hair combined with the remnants of her perfume and brushed his fingertips down her back to the firm roundness of her buttocks. In response Karen sighed softly and stirred. She murmured in response to his kiss on top of her head.

“Good morning, darling,” he whispered. Karen inhaled deeply. She untangled her arms from around him and stretched, then perched her chin on his. Jake reached out and snapped on the nightstand light.

“Good morning.” She kissed him, then stuck out her arms and indulged in another noisy, bone-popping stretch. “Nice night last night.”

Jake grinned back. “Yes, it was.” He slipped his hands up and down her back again and her smile broadened.

“What time is it?” she asked. Jake turned to the clock. He whistled.

“It’s almost seven,” he replied. He shifted enough to allow Karen to disentangle her legs from around his and allowed himself a yawn. “Too early.”

“Not for some things,” she replied. She shifted slightly on top of him and licked his throat. Her eyes opened wide when she felt his organ respond inside her. She kissed him again, eliciting a soft, pleasurable groan from deep in his chest.

“You are a vixen,” he whispered with affection. His hands slipped between her thighs and grasped them, gently drawing them upwards and spreading her legs apart. Karen shivered as he began to stroke her body up and down. She slowly levered herself up, settling his manhood deeper inside her. He felt himself throb in response. From her expression, so did she.

“Mmmm,” Karen said as she ran her fingers down his chest. A huge smile lit Jake’s face. He slipped his hands up from her wrists to her shoulders, then down her breasts. Karen hummed with pleasure.

“I love you,” she said. Jake tickled her nipples. Karen’s skin flushed first pink, then a deep rose color. Jake was surprised by her quick reaction. His own excitement also rose quickly. Karen murmured again as he became even bigger inside her. He brushed his palms across her front and found her breasts were already swollen in reaction to his touch—

The ring of the alarm clock was loud. It startled them both. Karen stifled her squeak of surprise and stared at the numerals parading across the clock face. She twisted her face into a faux grimace.

“And just when it was getting good,” she murmured. Jake shrugged his apology as she lifted herself off of him and slipped from under the covers.

“Rain check?” he asked hopefully. Karen’s smile was dazzling. She bent low and gave him a long, passionate kiss.

“Wow,” he breathed when they came up for air.

“Does that answer your question?” she asked.

“Yes.” Jake entwined his hand in hers, holding her close. She wiggled her fingers.

“Come on, now, sweetheart,” Karen said. “I’m due in at the precinct house at eight.”

“Can’t you take the day off?” Jake asked, his voice plaintive. Karen sighed. She seated herself beside him to kiss him again.

“Can you, my gorgeous hunk of husband?”

“Nope. Darned if my career is getting in the way of having my beautiful, desirable, sexy wife in bed.”

Karen laughed, a soft, full laugh that seemed to fill the room. “The weekend’s coming up.”

“Can’t wait for it to come,” Jake replied. Both he and Karen had planned to have the upcoming weekend off so they could, as Karen said, “do absolutely nothing”, although the gleam in her eye told Jake otherwise. She bestowed one more quick kiss to his lips and stepped away from their bed, offering him a long, full view of her naked silhouette. He rumbled his approval, drawing another smile.
Jake rubbed his face, scowling at the sharpness of the stubble that decorated his cheeks. He decided to imitate his wife and extended his limbs to their limits, releasing an enervating flood of warmth under his skin. His eyes were half closed when Karen reappeared, wrapped in a towel, her hair wet.

“Hey, sleepyhead, it’s wake-up time,” she said.

“I’m not due in at the hospital until eleven,” Jake grumbled. He wrapped one arm across his eyes. “Just a little more sleep, please.”

“Uh-uh. If I have to get up, so do you.” Karen grabbed the bedclothes and yanked, stripping him of his cover.

“Hey!” Jake tried to snatch back the sheet but it was too late. He shivered in the sudden draft. “Heartless woman!”

Karen waggled her finger at him. “Sorry, Doc. Rise and shine.” Her eyes strayed to his middle. “I can see you’re still thinking about me.”

Jake laughed and rolled out of bed. “Always, beautiful.” He pecked her on the lips as he headed for his own shower. “Always.”

Two hours later Karen found herself wishing she had taken the day off. Perhaps three inches of snow had fallen during the night and scattered flurries were still falling occasionally out of the leaden sky. The small, light flakes of snow seemed determined to fall throughout the morning, if not the day, guaranteeing no end of calls for traffic accidents in the Eighteenth District of Chicago.

“Don’t knock it, Kick,” her partner said as she turned their cruiser onto Michigan Avenue. “This’ll keep the crud off the streets and in their hovels for most of the day.”

Karen offered a small smile at the nickname that had been imposed on her by her fellow officers. It was a compliment to her Sa-Dan black belt in Tai Kwon Do—a significant achievement for anyone who professed a passion for the sport, and a remarkable one for a five-foot, one-hundred-and-fifteen pound woman like her. Karen was in fact officially authorized by her Tai Kwon Do association to teach others in the art. It was something her instructors discovered, and eventually used—Karen had been chosen to instruct some of her classmates in a few basic techniques, earning her the name “Kickboxer”, and the name stuck with her ever since. No one save for Jake knew just how much of a struggle is had been for her to reach even the Sa-Dan level. Karen had wanted to be the first woman in the United States to reach the pinnacle of skill in Tai Kwon Do, A Chi-Dan black belt, but her body let her down—she was soundly beaten in her first Rho-Hai contest by a bigger, stronger opponent, and two further efforts to pass the same challenge brought about the same painful, disheartening results. Karen was determined to excel in everything she did, from being the top cop in Chicago to being the sole American female to achieve Chi-Dan in the United States to being the best wife and partner possible with her gentle, loving husband. It was galling that her physique would not permit her to achieve a goal she had set for herself.

“Oh, shit. Get a load of this,” her partner snapped. Patrolperson Charlotte King (“Don’t ever call me a man, honey,” she snapped at any male who used the term “patrolman”) was, in Karen’s opinion, the epitome of what a female cop should be. Six feet tall in her heavy boots and almost one hundred eighty pounds, King had ten years of experience on the streets of Chicago. Her street cynicism aside, the “daughter of Kong,” as some of her male counterparts dubbed her (though never to her face) was probably one of the most professional cops Karen had ever met. Her uniform was always pressed and military-neat, her equipment in proper order, her demeanor to the public respectful and courteous, and crooks that ran into her lived in unholy terror at the mention of her name. She was the soul of kindness to the hurt and frightened, and an intractable, relentless pursuer of any criminal that happened to attract her notice. More than once the term “Bulldog” popped into Karen’s head as she followed King in the pursuit of some miscreant—she never let go of a suspect.

King reached down without looking and thumbed the switches that activated the cruiser’s strobe beacons and siren. Karen quickly noticed what she had already seen: a small, bright-red sports car windmilling down the snow-slick street at a rate of speed that promised an accident or more. Karen felt the cruiser fishtail as King pressed down on the accelerator pedal. The frantic wail of the siren overhead set her heart beating faster. She moved her shoulders to ease the sense of restriction caused by the encompassing soft body armor under her uniform blouse.

“I can’t believe this sonuvabitch is back again,” King muttered. Karen grabbed up the radio microphone. “It’s Old Man Winter’s hotrodder.”

Karen nodded. Her shift had been briefed a week ago about the annual visit by an individual who celebrated the first real snowfall in the city by racing through the streets in a four-wheel drive Lancia Delta, usually outrunning pursuing police and causing many accidents in his wake.

“You know this guy?” she asked, unnecessarily. King nodded shortly, her eyes fixed on the two roostertails of snow flung up by the red car’s rear tires.

“Hell, yes. I chased this sucker two years ago. Almost got him, too. Bastard pushed another car in front of me. I had to go on the sidewalk to avoid hitting an innocent. Why the hell does he have to come on my beat?”

“Er, Charlotte, I think we’re a bit fast for the road conditions—”

King’s face was working itself into a snarl of pure rage. She tried to push the cruiser faster. The heavy car’s rear end slipped completely, putting them at a 45-degree angle in the street. Out of the corner of her eye Karen saw a civilian’s car begin to twist crazily as its driver slammed on his brakes to avoid meeting their cruiser’s rear bumper. “No, we definitely are too fast. Charlotte, you’d better take it easy—”

Karen could not help her voice rising an octave. King heard it, too. She sighed and shook her head. The car began to behave again as she took her foot off the gas.

“You’re right,” she replied. “Call the fucker in. GTSC376. Maybe there’s an air unit at Calumet that can follow the bastard home.”

Karen nodded and began to report their pursuit on the radio, repeating the license number King had stated. The little red car grew smaller in their vision as its driver continued his reckless career. The guy’s completely crazy, Karen thought as she watched the car punch through two traffic lights. The dispatcher was excited by their report, if his tone of voice was any indication—

“Oh, shit,” she breathed suddenly. Beside her King nodded grimly.

“Yep, he finally did it this time,” she agreed, her voice angry. “Call for fire and paramedics, we’re going to need them.”

It only took them five minutes to reach the scene where the Lancia had come to an abrupt halt. It was resting at a sharp angle atop the hood and roof of the Cadillac Seville that had gotten in its path. Its wheels were still spinning as its engine revved at almost full power. King stopped the cruiser deliberately, mindful of the icy road under their own wheels. The dispatcher responded mechanically to the urgency in Karen’s voice as she called again for rescue equipment and an ambulance. She saw King shake her head.

“It’s going to take them time to get here,” she said, gesturing at the mass of stopped cars that had formed around them like a flood. “Let’s do what we can, then get the traffic under control.”

Karen nodded and stepped out, wincing at the deafening noise of the Lancia’s motor. The undamaged side of the Cadillac was closest to her and she stepped as quickly as she could, heading for the passenger doors. Unsurprisingly both were locked, and the warp in the metal where doors and roof met told how they were probably jammed shut. Karen nonetheless tried tugging at the rear door of the big sedan. She heard metal and rubber squeal as both cars rocked under the impulse of her motion. Both cars must be balanced against one another just enough to keep them from falling away. Instantly she stopped and released her hold on the car door.

“Whoa! Karen, be careful, this mess could come apart any minute.” King stuck her head around the front end of the Lancia. She drew her baton out of its ring on her belt and swung it at the driver-side door of the red car. It thumped resoundingly.

“Okay, driver,” she called out with lungs of brass, “turn off your engine and roll down your window. Now!”

It was a relief when the car’s engine stopped. Karen watched as King put on her professional face and tapped the car again with her baton.

“In case you haven’t noticed there’s no place for you to go, driver,” she continued. “Roll down your window right now or I’ll bust it in.”

At that threat the Lancia driver yielded. Karen heard glass squeak on rubber as he opened the window. King waited until his arm was well out of the widow, then both her hands stabbed upwards. The man screamed shrilly as she yanked him bodily out of the window.

“Are you okay?” she asked as the man sprawled on the street, her voice dripping with faux sincerity. “Do you have any broken bones? Well, I could have left you up inside your car if you like. When it falls off the top of this other car you hit you would’ve been hurt a lot worse than what I just did to you. Now, stand up—”

A sudden, frantic thumping next to her drew Karen’s attention downward. A small, pale hand was slapping at the passenger window of the Cadillac. She wiped away the snow sticking to the glass and looked inside. Both the driver and passenger were elderly, probably man and wife. The woman was tapping fiercely at the glass, her face contorted. The interior of the car looked like it was filling with fog, or smoke—

“Oh, shit,” Karen breathed. “Charlotte!”

She tried tugging at the door again. The cars rocked with sufficient authority to make the Lancia shift slightly in its embrace with the Cadillac. King moved swiftly, snapping handcuffs on the other driver and shoving him with little grace to the street, then dashing around the accident to Karen’s side. She looked at the old woman, who was now waving her hands in front of her face, then at a broad circle on the front windshield where snow was melting on contact.

“Oh, God. Karen, I think the car heater is busted in there,” she said. “It looks like coolant is spraying inside the car.”

“Oh, no,” Karen said. She grabbed the door handle again and yanked. “We’ve got to get them out, we’ve got to. Grab a hand—”

King had already put her face to the window and was shouting something about turning off the Cadillac’s engine to the woman inside. Karen knew it was a forlorn effort—she could almost feel the despair and terror the old lady was experiencing as hot fluid sprayed on her. She focused all her attention on the door handle in her hands and pulled again and again, focusing her thoughts on the handle to the exclusion of everything else around her. King’s shouting seemed to fade into a soft murmur and warmth was spreading through her arms and back and legs as she yanked with all her strength—

The door exploded free with a clang, almost tumbling Karen off her feet. She managed to catch herself in time and stopped. The sharp, dead-fish smell of hot coolant flooded her nostrils, making her choke. King was shouting something else now in an encouraging tone. She jumped into the car, then back out again, the elderly woman in her arms.

“Ouch! Ow, that hurt,” she shouted. “Karen, don’t go in there. That stuff is burning.”

“But the driver—” Karen began. With the door open the fog that had accumulated inside the cabin of the Cadillac had cleared rapidly. She could see the old man slumped against the steering wheel, unconscious. Her gorge rose in her throat as she noticed that hot coolant was splashing on his hand—the blistering was obvious even from a distance. “We’ve got to help.”

“Karen, no!”

Karen ignored her senior partner and dove into the front seat, trying to keep her heavy jacket between her and the coolant spray. The old man was still belted into the car seat and it took her precious seconds to release him from its grip. Points of stinging hot fluid spattered her neck and hair as she pulled the old man onto his side. She jumped deeper into the car, trying to mantle herself over the old man to shield him from the hot spray as she inched her way out. Suddenly two big hands grabbed her knees and she was dragged unceremoniously out onto the snowy roadbed, her grip on the old man not wavering.

In another minute it was over. After donning her heavy gloves King used her baton to smash out the Caddy’s windshield and reached inside just enough to turn off its engine. With the motor stilled the spray of coolant halted. Karen reveled in the cessation of that hot, oily odor. She could not help cringing as King stepped around the car and came up to where she sat on the street, her back to the cruiser—she looked as though she were ready to throttle somebody. She opened her mouth, then closed it again. Her expression softened.

“Are you all right?” she asked. Karen nodded.

“Yes, I’m fine. How are the old people?”

“Forget about them. I’m more worried about you. You don’t hurt at all? Christ, girl, you must be in shock. You stay right where you are.” King looked up. “There’s an ambulance. You’re getting checked out.”

Karen sighed in relief as the herd of doctors and nurses who had been hovering over her left her draped-in cubicle in Mercy Hospital’s emergency room. She had been swiftly transported via fire ambulance while King had sat by her side, holding her hand, and a bevy of solicitous paramedics had threatened to cut her blouse and body armor away from her despite her protests. The hospital wasn’t much better, but at least they had allowed her to remove her clothes rather than destroying them in the process of treating her. Surprise dominated her examination—in spite of her having been exposed to coolant that was sufficiently hot to cook a chicken she had not been burned at all. One intern, puzzled, had lifted her jacket and peered at the pinprick holes burned through the nylon by hot droplets of fluid.

“I’m fine, I really am,” Karen had said over and over again as she was stripped to the skin and required to roll onto her sides and belly by the attending physician. After half an hour of peering and prodding, it suddenly occurred to her examiners that she was telling the truth, and she was abruptly given a clean bill of health. She began to clothe herself in her uniform, wrinkling her nose at the foul fishy smell that permeated her clothes. She was in her undershirt and panties and was in the process of strapping on her vest when King thrust her face around the curtains.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” she said, scowling. “You’re not going to need that, Karen. You’re going home for the rest of the day.”

“I’m fine,” Karen protested. King’s scowl faded. To Karen’s surprise a real, relieved smile lit her face.

“I heard. The docs here have cleared you. Damned if you aren’t the luckiest rookie I’ve ever seen.” King shook her head. She sniffed. “Man, that shit stinks. No, Karen, go home and relax. You earned it. Forget about getting your belt buckle lined up properly.

I’ve come up with a new nickname for you. Everybody’s going to start calling you She-Hulk.”

“What?” Karen asked as she stomped on her shoes.

“After seeing you tear that car door off like you did, you deserve it.” King smirked. “That was one hell of a thing you did. I’m surprised you didn’t pull every muscle in your body doing it.”

“It was probably already broken,” Karen replied. To her embarrassment she found herself blushing under King’s praise. King saw it and almost laughed. “I just pulled it free.”

“Maybe.” King seemed about to say something else, then she shook her head. She touched Karen gently on her shoulder. It was a gesture of equals, and Karen warmed even more. “Sergeant Joe says go home, so you go home.” King’s eyes seemed to measure her up and down. “What’s this? Hey, rookie, didn’t they teach you anything at the academy? What’s with the high-water pants?”

“Huh?” Karen looked down. There was no doubt that almost a half-inch of ankle was showing between the cuffs of her uniform pants and the tops of her shoes. This time King did laugh, a loud, hearty sound.

“Forget I said anything. Go home and enjoy. I’ve got to get back outside. There’s bad guys to catch. Seeya.”

Karen stood, utterly bemused, as King exited around the drapes. She pushed down experimentally on her Sam Brown gunbelt, then tried smoothing her uniform pants with her palms. Nothing helped—her pant cuffs still revealed her socks. Her vest pinched her sides and she shifted her shoulders again to relieve it. Karen found herself shaking her head. What had happened? She knew that her pants were a perfect fit this morning at the precinct house. She had never heard of hot coolant causing clothing to shrink instantly before—in fact, the idea was so silly she blushed at the thought of it. Tugging at the legs of her pants did not help, either.

“What the heck happened to my pants?” she said aloud. She looked down at her feet again. Her vest seemed determined to be more uncomfortable than usual and she found herself pulling at her collar in an effort to ease its tightness around her chest. Great, she thought. My entire uniform must have gotten drenched in coolant. Now I’ll have to buy another one. She wiggled her toes inside her still-damp shoes and slipped out between the curtains.

“Karen?” The voice was familiar and very worried. Jake was standing at the other end of the Emergency ward. The anxiety on his face pulled at her heart. He almost ran across the room, dodging other medical personnel. Karen held out her hands to fend off what looked to be a dangerous collision as her husband skidded to a stop in front of her.

“Oh, thank God you’re all right,” he breathed, engulfing her in a hug. Karen felt her eyes mist up at the obvious relief in his voice. She was quite pleased to be comforted for a few moments, then she squirmed in Jake’s grasp. Jake released her.

“Are you okay? What happened?” he asked, his eyes dark with concern and worry. Karen smoothed away the sad, frightened expression on his face.

“I’m fine, honey, really I am,” she replied. “There was a traffic accident this morning and I got some engine coolant on me. I wasn’t hurt at all but they wanted me to come in for an exam anyway. I’m fine, and I’m being sent home.”

Jake gulped. He began to say something, then swept her into his arms again.

“I’m just glad you’re all right,” he said softly. There was nothing but honest relief in his voice, yet his saying those words seemed to strike Karen as foreboding for some reason. She shook away the curious feeling. Her vest pinched again and she shrugged her shoulders to ease it.

“I’m going to ask for the day off as soon as I finish talking to the detectives,” Jake announced.

“What detectives? Jake, they didn’t drag you in here—”

Jake shook his head. “No. I didn’t know you were here until Doctor Sakchai called me. No, the detectives are here for another reason. Karen, do you remember anything unusual happening last night?”

“Like what?” she asked. This time it was Jake’s turn to shrug.

“I don’t know. Everyone who left the hospital around ten last night is being questioned. It seems that there was an elderly couple sitting in that bus shelter on Michigan Avenue last night during the storm. They were found there dead this morning.”

“I like a good story well told. That is the reason I am sometimes forced to tell them myself.”
~ Mark Twain / Samuel Clemens (1907)

[AlexG]

Part Three

“Somebody died outside the hospital last night?”

Karen tried to swallow away the curious lump that suddenly appeared in her throat as she spoke the words. Jake nodded. She saw him swallow too.

“Yes,” he replied. The vague uncertainty in his voice was so out of character it startled her. She slipped from his grasp.

“Honey? What’s wrong?”

Jake looked into her eyes. The worried expression he wore faded. He smiled.

“It’s nothing, sweetie,” he replied. “It’s just that I can’t remember anything that happened last night until we got home.” His smile broadened. “I guess I was so tired it just didn’t register. I do remember what we did last night after we got home, though.”

Karen snorted. She quickly found herself engulfed in her husband’s arms once again. Jake squeezed her tightly.

“I’m just glad you’re all right,” he whispered in her ear. There was a wealth of relief in his voice, and Karen had to squelch an unexpected pang of regret that her chosen profession had worried her love so much. Jake’s second hug was more confident. Karen wriggled free of his grasp and saw that his smile had gotten toothy. He touched her elbows suggestively.

“Hope we can do it again tonight,” he added, waggling his eyebrows wolfishly. Karen pretended annoyance even as she kept herself pressed close to him.

“Hmph. You men are all alike,” she replied. “You just want to use women’s bodies for your pleasure.”

“I don’t think you’d mind,” he replied, his toothy grin not diminishing. He sniffed. “Boy, that stuff really stinks. Remind me never to change my own coolant, I’d probably never get the smell out of my clothes.”

“You’re telling me,” Karen replied. “I’d better get home and get my uniform into the dry cleaners before the smell becomes permanent.”

“Dr. Matthews?” a harsh voice said. “We just have a couple more questions—”

Jake had to loose his hold on her to turn towards its source. Karen looked over his shoulder. Two men were standing directly behind her husband, activity in the emergency room flowing around them like water around rocks in a stream. They were a study in contrasts: one was Jake’s height but double his age, dressed in a loud sport jacket marred by stains and with thick, wire-rimmed eyeglasses; the other, not much older than Karen herself, was tall and angular, dressed to the nines and as neat as a cat.

“Oh,” Jake said. “Karen, this is, ah, Detectives Taccetta, and Sammon—”

“Well, who is this?” Taccetta interrupted, his gravelly voice loud even in the noise of the room. “I didn’t see you outside, officer. What, you two related?”

“This is my wife,” Jake began. “Karen—”

“Your wife, huh? Doogie Howser got married,” Taccetta remarked. Jake felt Karen stiffen beside him. A quick sideways glance confirmed that she was bristling at the detective. It wasn’t the first time Jake had that title applied to him—with his size and boyish face it was accurate, after a fashion—but it never failed to annoy his wife. It was also evident that not only was Taccetta possessed of less tact than a lump of rock but that he was oblivious to the rancor he was causing. His younger partner did, however.

“How do you do, Karen,” he said. “Phil Sammon, Central Homicide. We were speaking to your husband about the DB’s found in the bus stop outside the hospital this morning.”

“Yes, Jake was telling me,” Karen replied. She let her eyes slide away from Taccetta in a gesture that would have been apparent to anyone else but flew over Taccetta’s head. Jake hid his own smile. Karen cocked her head and looked from one detective to the other. “I picked my husband up last night here.”

“Oh?” Neither Taccetta’s voice or expression changed by so much as a hair. “At what time?”

“About ten minutes after ten,” Karen replied. “At the south entrance.”

Taccetta and Sammon looked at one another. Taccetta turned back first and leaned forward until his head was level with Karen’s.
“Okay, officer, you say you picked up your hubby here around ten last night?” he grunted, his eyes darting from Karen to Jake and back again. “Doctor, you left here by the twenty-sixth street entrance? And you say you can’t remember seeing anybody in the bus stop there? How about you, officer?”

“No, I can’t remember seeing anyone at the bus stop,” Karen replied readily, her arms across her middle. She seemed to think for a moment. “I picked Jake up near it, but there wasn’t anyone there.”

Jake had to resist looking at his wife. There was a tremor of uncertainty in her voice, so slight that neither detective noticed it. His own doubts about his fuzzy memories of the previous night grew stronger, but he managed to keep his concern off his face. Taccetta’s eyes were darting from Karen to him and back again. He reached up and scratched at the oily black hair tucked behind his ear.

“Exactly where did you pick up Doogie here?” Taccetta asked suddenly.

“At the entrance,” Karen replied, gesturing in the direction of the south entrance visible through the doors leading to the ER.

“You stopped right in front? Near the bus stop?”

“No. I had to pull around the corner and walk back to find Jake.” Karen had set her face like stone. She slipped her hand into the crook of Jake’s arm. Her expression made her look curiously dangerous. Jake sensed her annoyance with the arrogant tone of the detective. It was an anger he was beginning to share.

“Did you see anyone in the bus stand? Just in front of the entrance?” Sammon asked, smoothly slipping himself into Taccetta’s line of questioning.

“I don’t recall any,” she replied. Taccetta was about to open his mouth when Sammon looked at him. He subsided and seemed to thaw all at once. A pleasant-if-tobacco-stained smile creased his features.

“Can you tell me what this is all about?” Karen asked, still in her professional mode. Sammon nodded.

“An elderly couple were found inside the stand last night, a little after midnight” he responded. “Both of them were cut up pretty bad.” He paled a little and shook his head. “Real systematic, head to foot. Some real sick bastard, or more than one, really worked them both over.”

“Oh, God, that’s terrible,” Jake said. Taccetta nodded.

“Yeah, it’s a hell of a way to celebrate Christmas,” he said, nodding gravely. “The funny thing is, whoever carved them up did it after they were dead. All the evidence points to them being killed someplace else and left in the stand after. They still had their wallet and purse, with almost a thousand dollars cash between them.”

“Right in front of the hospital?” Jake asked.

“Uh-huh. No ID on either of them, either—unless you count the antique driver’s license the old man had. Their name was Weber. Douglas and Margaret Weber. They looked to be well-off, too. Well, we got our work cut out for us on this one. Thanks for the help.”

Both detectives nodded in unison. They turned as if joined at the hip and began to wander down the ward towards the entrance, speaking quietly to themselves. Jake stared after them. Why did the mention of the name Weber make his mouth go dry? He tried to make sense out of his reaction, but could find no satisfactory conclusion.

“I’d better go, honey,” Karen said beside him. She too looked distracted. Jake fashioned a smile and quickly kissed his wife on the forehead.

“Okay, sweetie. Expect me around eleven.”

The afternoon passed swiftly. Snow had continued to fall, resulting in a steady stream of emergency room cases. Jake dealt with a middle-aged man with a wrenched back caused by a fall on an icy street, followed by two mild cases of hypothermia, a cut caused by a snowball with a rock center, and two episodes of shortness of breath that happily turned out to be the result of middle-aged sedentarianism rather than heart trouble. The Head of Emergency Medical Services at Mercy, Dr. Hyram Greenblat, wandered into the ER ward just as three ambulances arrived bearing the aftereffects of a multiple-vehicle collision on Lake Shore Drive. He stood impassively, a bear of a man with grizzled features, his half-glasses perched on his bulbous nose as Jake grabbed up one accident victim. It quickly became obvious that triage was unnecessary—the worst injury among the victims was a badly bruised shin and facial abrasions. Jake did not see Greenblat slip out of the ward as he cared for his patient and thirty minutes later found the ward uncharacteristically empty. Jake rotated each shoulder to ease the stiffness in his shoulders as Dr. Songvereetham Sakchai slipped up beside him.

“I’ve never seen it here this quiet,” he said conversationally. Jake nodded.

“Hope it stays this way,” he replied. He thought of the vision of his wife’s hips swaying as she had left the hospital earlier, something even her uniform pants couldn’t hide. Sakchai took one look at Jake’s face and grinned.

“Good Lord, Jake,” he said in his soft, singsong voice. “You’ve been married for almost a year now, yes? The blood must lie tamer in the veins by now.”

Jake grinned and shook his head. “No way, Song, and I hope it never does.”

“Oh, it will,” Sakchai replied. “Take it from somebody whose been enjoying connubial bliss longer than you. Thank God, too.”

Jake laughed. Sakchai joined in.

“We’re going to have to start calling you Toad, you know,” Sakchai grinned. Jake looked blank.

“Toad?” he asked.

“Of course. You’re always horny.”

“What?” Jake laughed. “Where did you hear that?”

Sakchai snorted. “Everybody knows that one. You—oh, dear.”

The clatter of the ER ward door’s being slammed open drew Jake’s attention. His heart sank as he observed two stretchers being swiftly herded into the space. One had two emergency medical technicians trying to move the stretcher while helping keep a third balanced on the stretcher frame as he pumped methodically at its occupant’s chest. The other had more police officers than paramedics and bore a supine, bloody figure.

“Oh, shit. Better yell for help,” Jake said. He launched himself out of his slouch and headed for the first stretcher. The paramedics oriented on him, and their senior member, a slim attractive female, nodded.

“Two victims, Doc,” she said. “First is a female Hispanic, age sixteen. She has multiple stab wounds in the upper and lower thorax, around the genital area and on the anterior area of both thighs. According to a family member she’s twenty-six weeks pregnant. She went code blue on us halfway here and resuscitation so far has been unsuccessful. We estimate she had initially injured about thirty minutes ago—”

Jake nodded shortly as the patient was swiftly transferred to an ER bed, the trauma nurses shredding her meager clothing with scissors as they moved. He felt his heart sink even as he began his evaluation. She was young, horribly so. Her skin was alabaster and shading to blue where it was not hidden by reddened bandages or marred by her own blood. The round swelling of her belly told of her pregnancy and the round freshness of her face told of her innocence. Jake quickly spelled the tiring paramedic who had not let up his resuscitation efforts and began to pump her chest, patiently and methodically. More activity erupted around him as he worked. What conversation there was around him was short and terse as more trauma specialists arrived to help.

“Unbelievable,” a voice said in his ear. It was one of the paramedics. His face was drawn and there were tears in his eyes. “That sunuvabitch—” he pointed with his chin at the other victim who had arrived, who was half-hidden by another team—”tried to carve a canoe out of her. Unbelievable.”

“Don’t worry,” Jake heard himself saying, “he’s not going to win.”

He turned back to the young woman. Intubation was successful and her chest was rising and falling mechanically as oxygen was pumped into her lungs. Jake listened to her chest and winced—there was obvious evidence of a pneumothorax in progress. A jab at his elbow told how one of the ER’s defibrillators had been wheeled beside him and he grabbed up the paddles, barking orders as he did so. The first shock had no effect, and he ordered a second charge.

“Are you sure?”

Jake turned to see Greenblat’s bulk hovering over him.

“We have to try,” he replied. Greenblat nodded. Jake placed the paddles against the woman’s chest and pressed the button. Again his effort failed.

“Again. Again.”

Jake tried three more times. At the last shock the readout of the EKG went from the massive pulse of the defibrillator release to a flat line with no evidence of activity. An overwhelming sadness filled Jake. He returned the paddles to their slots and sighed softly. A massive hand descended gently on his shoulder.

“It’s your call, Jake,” Greenblat said softly. Jake shook his head. Without conscious volition he found his hand pressing against the center of the young woman’s chest, just above her breasts. For one long, slow second he watched as the ventilator filled and emptied her lungs. Then, he straightened.

“What time is it—” he began. Something distracted him. He stopped, and pressed his hand down harder. There it was again, a gentle, insistent flutter. Sudden beeping over his head made him look up. It took a moment for him to register the slow, faint twitch of light across the EKG screen that heralded the beating of a human heart. Then he started.

“She’s back,” he announced to no one in particular. As if buoyed by his statement the beating of her heart grew stronger and more regular. Jake blew out his cheeks in relief. He had won.

“Okay,” he continued, “Looks like we’re getting a good sinus rhythm. Keep pumping that blood in—”

“Here.”

The voice was hoarse, loud, and accented. Something in its timbre made Jake’s spine quiver. He looked around quickly.

“Here,” the voice said again. “You are here.”

Jake shook his head. The last thing he needed was a distraction. Who was saying that—

“YOU’RE HERE!”

Noise and motion exploded from around the curtain separating the two victims. Jake looked up just in time to see a blur jumping at him through a tear in the barrier. For one split second Jake saw a distorted, mottled hand clenching something that flashed in the overhead exam light. He reacted instantly, reaching out to seize the wrist belonging to that hand, holding it away from his patient. Out of the corner of his eye a wild, gibbering face with twisted features and dark eyes was staring at him. The sheer hatred in the eyes of that face took his breath away. Jake looked down to see that the object in the hand was a disposable scalpel. It was pointed right at him. Adrenalin gave his hands and arms greater strength and he pushed the wrist away. Another blur, and half a dozen blue-uniformed individuals were pouncing on the second patient, slamming him back into his bed. The wrist jerked out of Jake’s grasp. His second instinct took over and he flung himself across his patient to shield her from further injury.

“Crazy as hell.”

Jake nodded at the police lieutenant’s calm pronouncement.

“Amazing, though,” the lieutenant continued. “We put twelve bullets in that guy. He shouldn’t have been able to crawl, nonetheless move like that. Imagine trying to hurt that girl again, even after all he did already. Amazing.”

Fatigue was flooding through Jake, making his limbs feel like lead. The lack of any further cases in the emergency room had done nothing to calm its frenetic pace. At least a dozen police officers were milling about the space, supplanted by a near-equal number of plainclothes officers, various dignitaries, and members of the press. Someone had brought in a video camera, and the glare of its spotlight made Jake squint.

“Well, we’ve nothing more to ask you tonight, Doc,” the lieutenant said. He nodded to an attending sergeant, who silently offered Jake a clipboard bearing a handwritten report. He signed it automatically.

“Thanks, Doc.” The lieutenant left, as did the sergeant. Jake rose from his seat. Doing so only seemed to made his fatigue worse. He saw Greenblat notice him. The ER Director began to move immediately, his gait remarkably smooth for someone of his bulk.

“Are you okay?” Greenblat asked. Jake nodded.

“If you want to leave early I’ll authorize it.”

“No.” Greenblat seemed surprised at Jake’s demurral. Jake smiled. “I’ve got to stay and work so I know I can.”

Greenblat’s massive jowls wobbled as he nodded and returned Jake’s smile. He clapped Jake on the arm.

“Good job, Doctor,” he said. “Real good job. Good thing you kept up on that Garcia girl. They’re going to move her upstairs in a few minutes. It’s too early to tell for sure but it looks like both she and her baby are going to be okay. Good job.”

“Thanks, Dr. Greenblat.”

“The name’s Hyram, Jake. Now get back to work.”

By the time his shift ended Jake found his energy back in full force. The ER had remained remarkably quiet after the incident, and Jake and joined the other witnesses of the “nutcase” (as Sakchai had dubbed the violent man in the ER) in a laugh-and-scratch session that helped ease the memory of what had happened. His last patient was a little boy suffering from a mild case of influenza and Jake’s smile had returned fully as he wrote a quick prescription for antibiotics.

“Hey, Jake, it’s ten,” Sakchai said as Jake waved to the departing little boy. “Time to go home and forget this day.”

“I’m right behind you,” Jake replied. He stuffed his stethoscope into a pocket of his surgical scrubs and strode quickly behind Sakchai out of the ER, heading for the physician’s lockers. Inside of ten minutes he had stripped off his hospital garb and stood before his locker dressed only in his boxers.

“Hey, Jake,” a voice called out. Jake recognized Dr. Carlton from Radiology. “I heard what happened in the ER today. You’d better start working out some more, they’re going to need you as security over there.”

Jake snarled and shook his head. Carlton, a first-year resident, fancied himself as the hospital entertainment director. It was more like he suffered from arrested social development. Carlton popped his head around the row of lockers and proved Jake’s thought again as he whistled.

“Take it back,” he continued. “Looks like your wife is finally putting some meat on you. Gee, you keep this up and we’ll be sending you to a beauty pageant.”

“Say goodnight, Carlton,” Jake growled. Carlton grinned, unfazed.

“Goodnight, Carlton,” he replied. Jake jerked off one sock, molded it into a ball, and flung it in Carlton’s direction.

“Ooh, what’s this? Hey, Jake, I don’t do laundry.”

“Goodnight, Carlton!”

“Okay, okay.”

Jake was in the act of pulling on his shirt when Sakchai sidled up to him. Jake noted with some envy that the diminutive trauma specialist was already fully dressed in civilian clothes.

“That Carlton should’ve been a psychiatrist,” he intoned. “That way he’d be among his own kind all the time.”

“You’re ready already?” Jake asked. “Song, I’ll bet it takes you longer to get in your jammies than it does to get in or out of your scrubs.” Sakchai grinned.

“All those minutes add up over the year. Do you need a ride tonight?”

“No, I got my car back this morning. See you tomorrow.”

Jake nodded in reply to Sakchai’s wave and shoved his arms into his shirtsleeves. Curiously the shoulders of his shirt seemed to grasp his armpits more than usual and he shrugged his shoulders to straighten out the folds in the fabric. His fingers moved quickly to button his shirt closed. It was strange, how hard he had to pull at the buttons to slip them inside their respective buttonholes. Even more curious was how snug his shirt seemed after he had buttoned it. Jake took a deep breath, then exhaled. It was funny, but he could not remember this shirt wrapping around his ribs so strongly this morning. He sighed and thrust his legs into his denims. Now curiosity was replaced by real surprise.

“What the hell—” Jake began. It was ridiculous, but his pants were definitely tighter on him than they had been this morning. He pulled the waistband up over his hips and zipped up his fly. A second later he had to resist the urge to pull them down again. They weren’t just snug around his middle—they were tight. His masculinity seemed to suffer the worst of it and he grunted at a twinge of pain as his private equipment sought out free space within the clutch of his pants. He found himself jiggling his legs to aid the process.

“I know I wasn’t this uncomfortable this morning—” he began, then caught himself. This was preposterous. He looked at the clothing he had just put on. It was his, all right. His denims even sported the chain of spots across one thigh caused by an injudicious use of bleach when it was his turn to do laundry. Now things were going from curious and strange to peculiar. Why did his legs look so big inside the legs of his pants? Why did he look bigger all over?

“I like a good story well told. That is the reason I am sometimes forced to tell them myself.”
~ Mark Twain / Samuel Clemens (1907)

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