Chance of a Lifetime (Chances Are #1) Page 3

  The shot does at least get his attention. He fires back at me. His bullet might be closer, but still misses. It does get me to break my stride for a few seconds. By the time I can get a head of steam up again, he's got the boat untied.

  He jumps on board as I get halfway down the pier. I try another shot that hits the boat and makes a hole in its hull. He looks up at me and then squeezes off four shots in quick succession. I flatten myself on the rotten pier, which is what he wants.

  I hear the boat's engine start up. I'm almost out of time. I push myself to my feet. I run faster than I have in twenty years to the end of the pier. As I reach the end, I hurl myself into the air.

  I'm lucky Luther has a small boat, the back of its hull low enough that I manage to land on top of it, next to the motor. I hear something crack-probably a couple of ribs-and groan with pain. The impact also shakes the gun from my hand. I see it on the bottom of the boat as I start to push myself on board.

  My ungraceful landing has drawn Lex's attention. He comes back from the front of the boat, his gun aimed at my head. He squeezes the trigger. Nothing happens.

  As I reach for the pistol at my feet, Lex lets out an animal snarl. He grabs the nearest thing handy-an oar-and then hits me in the face with it. I groan in pain again and drop to my knees. The oar's shattered in the middle, which leaves a few sharp edges at the end still in Lex's hands.

  Before he can use that to slit my throat, I punch him in the midsection. It's his turn to groan with pain this time. I hit him again in the face and the oar falls from his hands. Another punch and he's down on the floor of the boat.

  I grab him by the lapels of his suit. "It's over for you, Lex."

  "Not yet," he says. He raises his right hand and I see a syringe filled with something pink. Before I can react, he stabs me in the neck with the syringe. He pushes down on the plunger to bury the needle deeper into my neck.

  There's a tingle in my neck and then my entire body goes numb. My hands release Lex. I fall backwards, onto the floor of the boat. I stare up at the orange-brown sky that represents night in the city. I desperately want to move, but every muscle in my body is frozen.

  Lex's face appears over me. A moment later, so does the barrel of my pistol. "Goodnight, Detective," he says.

  I have just enough time to see Maddy's face in my mind. Then there's a boom and a flash of light.

  ***

  I have the strangest dream. When it begins I'm underwater. It's one of those out-of-body experiences they talk about on television, where I can see myself.

  It shouldn't come as a surprise that I've got an anchor chained to my leg. Lex probably chopped off the anchor from the boat so he could weigh down my body to make sure it stays at the bottom of the harbor.

  From my vantage I can see I'll have a lot of company. It's already a graveyard down here. I can see one skeleton in a zoot suit, another in a leisure suit, and still another in a tracksuit. I'm a lot more casually dressed in my undershirt and pants.

  There's something else I can see from where I hover: the red hole in the center of my forehead, made by my own gun. Makes me wonder why I'm still here if I'm dead. Maybe I'm a ghost. Or maybe this is just a dream. The latter would be preferable; I don't want to rattle around chains for all eternity or whatever ghosts are supposed to do.

  I'm not weighted well enough to land on my feet. When I hit bottom I come down on my left side. That was always the side I slept on when I shared a bed with Debbie. Now I just share the bottom of the harbor with a bunch of corpses. I suppose that's an appropriate end to the life of Detective Steve Fischer, world-class screw-up.

  It's too bad I'll never get to see Maddy again. I call to mind the clipping I took from the newspaper and try to imagine her face. If I'm a ghost, will I get to haunt her? At least that way I might be able to check up on her, see how she's doing. The only problem is I have no idea where she lives. By now she could be across the country in LA or Seattle or she might be on another continent, in Paris or London.

  As I think about this, a funny thing happens: the wound in my head starts to close. At first I think I must be seeing things, but within a few seconds the hole is gone; only a pink mark remains. Even that is gone after a few more seconds. The rest of the cuts and scratches on my body from the broken glass Bruiser ran me through disappear as well.

  My eyes don't open. I don't return to my body. I still lay there on the bottom of the harbor, only now my wounds are gone. Not that it will matter in a few months when I'm a bunch of bones.

  Then I notice something else: my hair is growing. Not just growing, but turning from gray back to its natural brown. It gets shaggy like when I was a kid, but then it continues to grow. It grows to my shoulders, far longer than I ever wore it. It just keeps on going until it's halfway down my back.

  The hair isn't the only thing about my head that's changing. My face thins, my jaw narrows, and my nose shrinks to lose that gin blossom look. The stubble on my jaw and cheeks turns brown, then to white peach fuzz, and then disappears entirely.

  The changes don't stop there. My arms turn thinner as the flab melts away, along with most of the muscle. My hands get thinner too; my fingers narrow until they seem dainty. The fingernails get longer, much longer than I ever kept them.

  My middle age spread gets smaller and smaller until it's gone entirely. At the same time my waist gets narrower. With this change, my pants and boxer shorts slip off to collect down around my ankles. What the hell is going on?

  The answer becomes clearer once my chest changes. Beneath my undershirt, my breasts inflate and become rounder-like a woman's. The wet fabric of my shirt presses against them tight enough that I can see nipples stand out at full attention. From my vantage I get a good look at my ample cleavage.

  That all might have been a turn-on if it were happening to someone else's body. But this sick joke is happening to my body. It gets even sicker when my manhood disappears. My penis pulls back like a scared turtle; it crawls back farther and farther until it's retracted inside of me. Skin and hair cover the hole, until there's no trace of it.

  My legs are the last things to change. Like my arms, they become thinner, all the fat and most of the muscle stripped away. Even my feet get thinner; they shrink and taper at the same time until they seem as small as my feet when I was ten.

  The advantage of these last changes is that the anchor attached to my leg slips right off. My pants and boxer shorts go along for the ride, so that from the waist down I'm naked. Just like that, this new female version of me is free. She floats right towards me. I want to move back, but I can't.

  When we merge it's like an electric shock runs through me. The next thing I know, I'm looking up towards the surface of the water. I try to kick, but something heavy restricts me. I realize it's my undershirt, which is now about five sizes too big. I waste precious air grappling with it, until it too sinks to the bottom with the rest of my clothes.

  These arms and legs aren't as strong, so it's hard to see if I'm making any progress at all as I kick and paddle. I keep at it though, desperate to live. My lungs begin to burn; they demand fresh air in them. I think of Maddy again; that helps to spur me along. I keep her face in the front of my mind as I break through the surface of the water-

  Part 2:

  Reborn

  Chapter 7

  I wake up to something wet and slimy in my face. I wipe at it with one hand, to push it away from my face. As I do, I feel it all around my head, down my back. I give it a good tug only to feel a sharp pain in my scalp.

  I open my eyes at the pain. When I see two full, round breasts, I scream. I've heard enough screams in my time on the force to know a woman's scream when I hear it. I clap a hand over my mouth to try to silence the sound.

  It wasn't a dream! What I saw in the harbor actually happened. I hold out my hand and note it's just as thin-as dainty-as what I remember from the dream. I touch one hand to my forehead, where the bullet wound was. It's gone.

  I should scream again and perhaps run around in circles out of panic. But despite everything else, my instincts are still the same. Instincts honed by thirty years as a cop kick in. I think back to what happened and try to piece a timeline together.

  I went to Lennox Pharmaceuticals on a tip. I found Artie Luther there with some of his goons. I got Luther alone. We struggled. He stabbed me with a syringe. My whole body went limp. I passed out. Then that crazy dream. And now-

  Now I'm a woman. It seems implausible, but I only need to look down again to know it's true. That syringe. What the hell was in it? Some kind of toxic chemical? Something radioactive?

  No, that's stupid. This isn't a Spider-Man comic. There's a logical explanation for everything-or as logical as an explanation can get under the circumstances. I need to go back to Lennox and ask what the hell was in that syringe.

  Just a couple of problems: first, I'm naked and second, no one will believe me. If I show up there naked and scream about an instant sex change, I'll wind up in the loony bin. That is if I make it that far. It doesn't take long for something bad to happen to a naked woman on these streets.

  I take a deep breath to relax, and then try to figure out where I am. I'm on a metal pier. I must have grabbed it when I surfaced and then pulled myself up. The city's skyline looms over me, the skyscrapers still lit up for night. How long until morning? I'd better find some clothes before then. That's my first priority.

  The pier I've beached on is actually part of a private marina. In front of me are a dozen small boats. None of them seem to have any people aboard at the moment. Still, maybe I can find something to cover myself with on board one of the boats.

  I get to my feet too fast; my head spins. I almost topple back into the water, but at the last moment I grab a metal pole with a reflector on it. I take a couple more breaths to try to collect my strength, such as it is. It doesn't work; I double over and puke into the water. Apparently this girl can't hold her liquor. The gallon of bourbon I drank at Squiggy's tastes three times worse as it comes back up.

  I kneel on the pier; a trickle of puke dangles from one corner of my mouth and my entire body shakes. I have to use the pole like a cane to lever myself up. My legs are still wobbly when I take a step, but this time I keep my balance.

  My first steps as a woman are hesitant. I still have two legs and ten toes, but my feet are a lot smaller now. These breasts sticking out also shift my balance. The wobbly pier doesn't help either.

  I need five steps before I start to get the hang of it. The important thing is not to take too big of steps, to remember that these legs are shorter. Baby steps, I tell myself.

  With these baby steps I make it to the end of the pier. Now comes the most difficult part: I have to jump from the metal pier to a cement wall that runs on the side of the marina. It's difficult not only because my body is different, but also because I'm naked. I have to be careful not to cut my bare feet on the cement.

  After I size up the situation, I know it's too far to jump. Instead I get up next to the cement wall and then try to pull myself up. I almost fall back onto the pier, but barely manage to keep my balance. With a surge of effort I make it onto the wall.

  From there it's easy enough to get onto the wooden docks that run between the boats. I decide to try one of the yachts first; its owners are richer and thus more likely to leave spare clothes around. I can't turn on any lights, so I have to go by the dim lights of the marina and the moonlight.

  I feel my way through the galley; my tiny new stomach gives a queasy groan to signal it doesn't want to think about food right now. There's a stateroom past the galley. The bed's made up, which means no one should be aboard.

  I search through the drawers beneath the bed and against one wall. Nothing. Not even a sock left behind. The closet yields the same result. Damn it! My face turns warm. Something tickles my cheek. I put a finger to my cheek and realize I'm crying. I haven't cried in thirty years.

  "Oh shit," I say, but it's not the gruff voice roughened by years of cigarettes and booze. This voice is high and sweet, like a little songbird. "Shit," I say again.

  Out of morbid curiosity I go to the head. I forget about subtlety and turn on the light. In the mirror is a woman's face, her cheeks red and eyes wet. At least those eyes are the same color. They're still my eyes. What's strange is there aren't any wrinkles around them. No crow's feet or laugh lines anywhere. Not even any creases on the forehead. I look as young as Maddy in the picture I kept in my wallet. I wonder again what the hell was in that syringe that could make me not only a woman, but also thirty years younger.

  I hold up my left hand; the woman in the mirror does the same. I force myself to smile and so does she. Good Christ, this is real! I brush soggy brown tresses forward to cover up my breasts, like how they paint Eve in images from the Bible. The hair doesn't cover everything, but it's less indecent now. Too bad there aren't any fig leaves for my bottom half.

  I click off the light; the woman's image disappears. I wipe at my eyes and sniffle a couple of times. After another deep breath, I go out the way I came in. Then I move on to another boat.

  The best I can find after I search five boats is a dark blue windbreaker left on the back of a captain's chair. The man who left it there is the same size as I used to be. From the way the coat fits, I'm at least nine inches shorter than that now. The sleeves dangle as if I'm a child, but the hem of the coat covers up my naughty bits.

  I zip up the coat all the way to my chin, relieved that I can't see my breasts anymore. It's ironic that after all the time I looked at nudie magazines I can't stand to see myself as a naked woman. I shiver as I think of what any man who finds me like this will do to me; he'll do a lot more than look, that's for sure.

  There are some galoshes next to the seat. Like the coat they're much too big for me; they look like clown shoes on my tiny feet. Still, they should protect my feet well enough from splinters, stones, broken glass, and other hazards.

  I hurry off the boat. I hear the creak of a gate nearby. I crouch down and try to make myself as small as possible. A man with fishing poles and a tackle box is on the dock. Why anyone would want to fish in this harbor I have no idea. There's probably enough mercury in each fish to fill ten thermometers.

  The man whistles a jaunty tune as he boards one of the sailboats. As he gets his boat ready, he doesn't seem to notice me. I wait until he bends down to sprint for the gate he came in from. "Hey!" he calls out, but I don't stop.

  Chapter 8

  I'm lucky to be on the streets in that rare golden hour when most of the criminals have passed out and the good people haven't woke up yet. The few people around are drunk enough or smart enough to mind their own business. I manage to walk-run really-the forty blocks to my apartment building without any serious trouble. I do hear a couple of belated catcalls, but no one's quick enough to stop me.

  Now that I've got my land legs under me, it's easy enough to run in this body. I'm not carrying around thirty pounds of fat anymore. In fact I'm so healthy that by the time I get to the building I'm not winded.

  That's just as well because the elevator is broken again, which means I have to climb five flights of stairs. Usually when this happens it takes me the better part of an hour to get up to my apartment after breaks to catch my breath and then lose it again when I smoke a cigarette on the landing. So far I haven't felt any nicotine cravings, though that might change in a day or two.

  The obvious problem is my keys are gone along with everything else. I don't really have a plan on how to get inside. It's not like I can ask one of my neighbors to help me out. We weren't on the best of terms before tonight and there's no way they'll believe me now. As I trot up the stairs I just hope to figure out a way inside when I get there.

  It turns out someone's already taken care of that problem for me. I see the door open from down the hallway. I instinctively reach to my shoulder, where my gun should be, but only get a handful of jacket over my breast. I flatten myself against the wall so I can approach slowly. That's tough to do in rubber boots several sizes too big.

  As I close in, I can see whoever opened the door did an amateur job of it; the lock is busted open with a crowbar. This is intentional, so the police will know it's an amateur robbery and not the work of organized crime. Luther wants to pin my disappearance on a robbery gone wrong so he doesn't take any heat from it.

  I stick my head in the doorway. I don't own a lot of stuff, but what I do have is either on the floor or vanished. The TV, VCR, and radio are gone from in front of the couch, which is turned over on the floor. I don't hear anyone inside; whoever did the job has probably left by now. When someone comes to look for me-or Luther plants an anonymous tip-they'll see the evidence of the crime.

  And where will I be when that happens? I can sit in here and wait. I could even call the police myself. Then what will I tell them? That Artie Luther shot me up with some weird drug and now I'm a young girl? No one will buy that. If I plead loud enough maybe I can get them to do a DNA test. Would that prove I'm who I say I am? Did the drug change my DNA too? That's much too scientific for me to know.

  I need to go somewhere and think things over. Get some rest, maybe even a shower. First I need some clothes. I step over the pieces of broken glass from pictures of little Maddy on the floor. The bedroom isn't much better than the living room. My entire wardrobe is laid out on the floor, along with the mattress, which has been slashed open. Whoever did this is a real pro; even I start to believe it was a random burglary.

  I mount the nightstand so I can see the top shelf of the closet. Damn, he got my spare pistol. That would have come in handy. Nothing I can do now but get some clothes and leave.