by Naomi Kryske
That struck Sinclair. In other circumstances he had urged men—desperate men—to surrender peacefully, to choose life over death, and it was a spiritual choice everyone had to make at one time or another. “I hope he was able to shed some light.”
“He didn’t know what it meant for me exactly. Perhaps choosing trust over fear and shame, or choosing to look ahead and not back. He thinks of himself as a farmer, because when he visits patients in the hospital, he just plants seeds. He doesn’t get to see if they grow or not.”
“That’s a good analogy. The seeds of justice are already growing in you.”
“Then I must be the dirt,” she said with a rueful smile. “That’s how I feel most of the time, so if something good could come out of all this, it would make a big difference.”
“It will,” he assured her. “How are you otherwise?”
“I should be asking you that,” she replied, glancing at his hand.
“It doesn’t bother me.” He handed her a copy of her statement about the hospital attack.
“I know—read and sign,” she said. It didn’t take long.
There was a knock at the door. “Time for a wash,” the nurse said.
“Already?” Jenny’s face was suddenly tense.
“I’ll step outside.” He walked down to the nurses’ station. Andrews and Casey were both there. Andrews had probably given Casey all the details of his bout with the window. He took the opportunity to review the transfer plans with Casey. “Andrews, give me about ten minutes,” he said, when he saw the nurse leave Jenny’s room.
Jenny looked like she’d had the wind knocked out of her sails. Her arm clutched her teddy bear. “Are you all right?” he asked.
“It still hurts to move. The nurse did her best, but…”
“But?” he prompted, wondering if she could weather what he had planned.
She was a little disconcerted by his attentiveness. “I’m shy,” she said slowly. “I know she’s given baths to hundreds of people, but I’m such a mess. I don’t like people looking at me.” She missed the pained expression that crossed his face.
“Jenny,” he said, stepping closer to the bed, “we’ll be moving you tonight.”
“Home? Are you sending me home?”
“No, but we’ve found a safe place for you, and I’d like to take you there.”
They heard a knock. “Sir, we’re ready.” Andrews was accompanied by Dr. Adams and a tough, stern-looking man. “Sergeant Casey will be looking after you when you leave hospital,” Dr. Adams informed her.
She stared at Sergeant Casey. He wasn’t in uniform; what kind of sergeant was he? He was wearing dark trousers and a dark turtleneck shirt. His jacket wasn’t buttoned, and she could see a gun strapped to his belt. He was younger than the chief inspector and not quite as tall. His ginger hair was cut short, his eyes were icy blue, and he didn’t have an ounce of spare fat anywhere. Her stomach turned over. What did “looking after her” mean exactly? “Where am I going? Is he going, too? Don’t you have to ask me? He doesn’t even look like a policeman!”
“Before I joined the police, I was in the military,” Casey said.
“I don’t understand any of this!”
Sinclair didn’t intervene. He wanted to see how Casey would respond to her.
“Miss, I’ve seen your file. I know what was done to you, and you have every right to be afraid of men you don’t know. You need to know some things about me. In my work I had a mission. Amongst other things, I was what you Yanks call a combat medic.”
Her eyes widened. “Why do I need you?”
“Because I know how to treat the wounds you have, and I can protect you at the same time.”
“Will you understand that I’ll be afraid sometimes?” she asked in a low voice.
He’d seen the forensic photos. He noted the recent bruises on her neck. “Love, we’re all afraid sometimes.”
Sinclair heard a new gentleness in his voice. Casey adapts fast.
Good.
“Miss Jeffries, I need to show him where you’ve been hurt and tell him what treatment to provide,” said Dr. Adams.
“No, please.” She clutched her hospital gown tightly, holding it closed with her fingers. “Can’t he just look at my chart or something?”
“He needs to have a look at you,” Dr. Adams insisted.
“Are you all going to watch?” she asked, her tension mounting.
“I’ll step out.” Andrews handed his boss a small envelope, containing all the personal belongings Jenny had had when she was admitted to hospital: two tiny earrings.
Sinclair decided not to give them to her just yet. He put the envelope in his pocket. The door closed behind Andrews, but Sinclair did not budge. He wanted to watch Casey.
The sergeant moved closer to the bed. “Dr. Adams is right, love. I need to see where you’ve been hurt and where you’re still hurting. I’d rather do it with your permission.” He let his hand rest on her hand, very lightly.
She didn’t miss the implication, and she began to cry.
“Here’s what we’re going to do,” Casey continued. “I’m going to move my hand, and then you’re going to move your hand. Then Dr. Adams is going to show me what to do. I won’t touch you unless I have to.”
Her hand was shaking, but she did as he suggested. She saw anger cross his face after Dr. Adams opened her hospital gown and exposed her injuries. Sinclair saw it as well. There was no sign of Casey’s initial resentment. When Adams finished, Casey covered her.
“Gentlemen, I need a few minutes alone with my patient,” Adams informed the two policemen. When they had left, he sat down next to the bed. “Miss Jeffries, you’re leaving hospital a bit ahead of schedule, but Sergeant Casey is a good man.”
“Dr. Adams, he’s so scary looking! That stony face!”
“He’s been well trained. However, I want you to promise me that you’ll make him contact me if any problems develop that you feel he can’t handle. You’re too important for him to refuse you. You know your body, and if you don’t feel right about something, stand your ground and insist. Will you do that?”
She swallowed hard. Dr. Adams’ face softened, and he dropped his professional manner for a moment. “You’re recovering well, you know. You’re going to be completely all right.” He patted her hand, not expecting a reply, and summoned Sinclair and Casey.
“The passages are clear. It’s time to go,” Sinclair said.
“Miss Jeffries, Sergeant Casey is going to give you a strong sedative,” Dr. Adams said. “When you wake up, you’ll be in your new surroundings.”
She saw the syringe in the sergeant’s hands, and she paled. “Do I have to have a shot? Does he have to do it? Is it safe? Who’s going to protect me from him?”
“It’s best,” the doctor assured her. “It takes effect quickly, and your escorts are in a hurry. The trip would be too painful for you otherwise.”
Sinclair moved to the other side of the bed and took her hand. He nodded to Adams and Casey.
Dr. Adams turned Jenny on her side slightly and pushed her hospital gown out of the way.
“What are you doing? Cover me up!” she cried, trying to pull her hand free from Sinclair’s grip.
“Miss Jeffries, the injection goes in your hip,” Adams explained.
“No! No…” she wailed, but Mr. Sinclair did not release her hand. Oh, she hated them all—Mr. Sinclair, who talked about consent but didn’t practice it; Sergeant Casey with his hard face; even Dr. Adams and his matter-of-fact tone. She felt cold alcohol, then the sting of the injection. Sergeant Casey was quick, at least.
Casey watched her blink rapidly, fighting the effect of the drug. Sinclair held her hand until her eyes closed and her breathing became relaxed and even. “Let’s move,” he told Casey and called for Andrews, Davies, and the officers outside. Dr. Adams and Sergeant Casey shifted her to the stretcher that Davies and Sullivan brought, Sinclair shook hands with Dr. Adams, and in a few minutes they had wheeled her d
own the passage and out of sight.
PART TWO
We look before and after;
We pine for what is not;
Our sincerest laughter
With some pain is fraught;
Our sweetest songs are those
That tell of saddest thought.
—Percy Bysshe Shelley
CHAPTER 1
In the half light of dawn, the pain was bright and strong. Fearing any movement would aggravate it, Jenny tried not to breathe. And failed. Someone pressed two pills into her palm. An arm behind her back forced her forward, causing additional pain in her ribs. A glass appeared at her lips.
“Drink,” a rough voice said. She was at his mercy. She obeyed. He allowed her to sink back. “She’s awake, sir,” the voice continued. “See you in five.”
When she opened her eyes next, Mr. Sinclair was sitting next to the bed, concern filling his blue eyes. “I know this is hard,” he said. “That’s why I’m here. You’re in a safe place now. I want to do my best for you, and Casey does as well.”
She felt disoriented. She’d gone to sleep in one place and awakened in another: the Wizard of Oz syndrome. The pain retreated slightly, and her mind began to focus. No harsh hospital sheets here—and a real comforter covered her. She was in a room with cream-colored walls and pale print wallpaper. Heavy curtains kept the light out.
Casey stepped forward. “I expect you’d like to get up. Can you swing your legs to the edge of the bed?”
“No, sir—yes, sir—”
“You don’t have to call me sir. Put your arm on my shoulder, and slide onto your feet.”
She leaned against him, all her weight on her right leg.
“Try to use your left leg a bit,” Casey advised. “Now, to the loo.”
She shuddered. Was this man going into the bathroom with her? The carpet felt soft on her feet, but her leg throbbed, and it was slow going. The bathroom was small, at least by Texas standards. No room for him, thank God. “I can manage,” she said through clenched teeth, hoping it was true.
“Call me,” he said and closed the door behind him.
She did what she needed to do and then gripped the sink for support. Without thinking, she looked up. What she saw in the mirror shouldn’t have shocked her. Of course the gash, even patched up, was more than readily visible—it was smack dab in the middle of her cheek. Mr. Sinclair had been kind to describe it as a wrinkle. Of course there would be bruises, making her skin look sallow. But still she felt shaken. She wanted to get back in bed and pull the covers over herself, but Mr. Sinclair had other ideas.
“I’d like you to see the rest of the flat and meet the men who are guarding you.”
“I can’t face anyone now,” she objected. “Not looking like this.”
“Your bruises have faded, and your wound is healing. You’ll be fine. Sullivan’s here, Jenny. There’s just one new officer.”
She tried another approach. “I’m not dressed! I’m naked under this hospital thing.”
“Jenny,” he said in a lighter tone, “we’re all naked under our clothing.”
She couldn’t appreciate his humor. “I’m not covered enough,” she insisted.
“Then use this for the time being,” he suggested, handing her the hospital dressing gown.
Again she put her arm on Casey’s shoulder, but his support wasn’t sufficient. She sagged against the sofa when they reached the living room.
Sinclair frowned. He should have realized how weak she would be. Pain from her ribs, incision, and leg had kept her physiotherapist sessions short. Even with assistance, she hadn’t taken more than a few steps at a time. “You’ll have to pick her up, Sergeant.”
“I’ve carried packs heavier than you,” Casey told her.
Danny pulled out a chair for her at the kitchen table, but she didn’t greet him—she was shaken by the sight of a huge man with hair the color of rye toast. Her mouth went dry, and she angled her injured cheek away from him
“I’m PC Davies,” the stranger said, rising to his feet, “but you can call me Brian if you like.” He didn’t react to her appearance.
“The tea’s wet—do you fancy some?” Danny asked.
“Yes, thanks,” she whispered. “I can’t make it myself yet.”
“Not to worry,” Danny said. “We’re your slaves! We’ll do it all. Milk and sugar?”
“Ugh. No milk.”
“So American!” teased Danny. “Cereal? Eggs? You’re too thin! We need to feed you up.”
“I don’t feel hungry.” She took only a sip of the tea. “How large is this place?”
“Three bedrooms and two bathrooms,” Sinclair replied. “You’ve already seen the sitting room and dining room. There’s a utility area off the kitchen.”
“Why so much space?”
“Because Sergeant Casey and the other two men will be living here with you.”
“I want my parents to take care of me. Can’t I go home?”
“You haven’t healed enough to travel. You’ll have to be our guest for a bit.”
She tried to focus on Mr. Sinclair and not the dark shapes looming behind him. “Please, could I go back to the hospital?”
“You’ll be much safer here. Our goal is total protection, nothing less.”
“In an apartment with three men? Is this a cruel joke? Don’t you have any policewomen?”
“Jenny, police officers protected you while you were in hospital.”
“Yes, but that was a public place with lots of people around. And this is so sudden!”
“It was felt that your circumstances warranted a rapid response.”
She swallowed hard but did not reply.
She’s frightened, Davies thought. Of us. Of me. He knelt down and spoke to the wary eyes. “It’s a bit overwhelming, isn’t it? I’d like to help if I can.” He noted the thin hospital gown, the bruises it did not cover. “Sir, she’s cold.”
Sinclair shrugged out of his coat and draped it over her shoulders. “Jenny,” he said gently, “we would be remiss if we didn’t prepare for every sort of threat.”
Davies straightened and stepped back.
“Serial murder is rare in England,” Sinclair continued. “This is a big case, and there is enormous pressure to get things done. Your testimony against Scott is the most powerful evidence we will have. All I’m asking of you is to give these men a chance to prove they are trustworthy.”
She was tired already. Her chin drooped.
Sinclair gestured to Casey to take her back to her room.
She paled. And strained to keep her eyes open until Casey had settled her in bed and left.
CHAPTER 2
When Sergeant Casey looked in on Jenny, she was already awake. The men brought her lunch on a tray. Hot soup. More tea. Danny was the most outgoing, and he kept the conversation lively, even from his position on the floor. “Rank has its privileges—and so does size,” he joked as Casey and Davies took the chairs. They all had some rank—someone had acknowledged their value. In the hospital she’d been the “fractured ribs” or the “police patient” or worse. What was she now?
A coward. She didn’t want to know these men; she wanted to hide. And to sleep—the smallest movements wore her out.
The flat was very quiet. There had been so much going on at the hospital, nurses or other personnel in and out of her room day and night. She hadn’t thought she’d miss the interruptions, but now her world had been reduced to four beige walls, three strange men, and one pathetic set of clothes.
Danny escorted her to dinner. The men had laid the table for four people. “Where’s Mr. Sinclair?” she asked.
“He’ll call by later,” Sergeant Casey said. “He’s got a lot on.”
Call by? What did that mean? Was he calling or coming over? “He’s left me with the men in black,” she said despairingly. “If you’re the good guys, shouldn’t you be wearing white?”
“Good film!” Danny responded with a laugh.
Someone had made roast chicken, vegetables, and tossed salad, but her stomach felt unsettled, and she didn’t eat much. After dinner, Brian invited her to watch television with them, but it was hard to stay awake. She wanted to climb into bed and pull the covers over herself, to shut out this alternate universe with its uniformed men and their accented, archaic language.
Sergeant Casey helped her into the bedroom, where he explained that he would be on watch again that night.
“What’s that?” she asked, tensing at a sound.
“The furnace. There’s a click before the air begins to flow.”
My God. She was afraid of the appliances.
When he brought her pain tablets, he had some medical supplies on the tray. He removed the steristrips from her cheek. “I’ll cleanse the sutures from your chest tube and replace the dressing,” he said. “It won’t hurt.” He folded back one side of her hospital gown.
“No—wait—” She tried to cover herself.
No one in the Royal Marines had been shy, and it was a moment before he understood what her concern was. He covered her breast with the top of the gown, but her long abdominal scar was still exposed, and she began to cry, slow, silent tears that leaked from the corners of her eyes and ran down the sides of her face. She knew that she should feel grateful for his care, but she didn’t. She was afraid of him, of his closeness, his hands on her body, the crease between his brows that made him look like he was frowning all the time.
When he finished, he looked up. “You’re going through a rough patch, but you’ll make it.” He reached down and turned off the light by her bed.
The dark—the little room—the monster—fear gripped her like a glove, and she couldn’t keep from crying out. “Sergeant Casey,” she begged, “please don’t leave me in the dark.”
He switched on the lamp. “I’ll not do that.”
“Promise?” she gasped. “You won’t decide I have to sink or swim?”
“No, love. That’s a judgement only you can make. Now, let’s calm you down. Watch me breathe, and breathe with me.” He matched her frantic breaths and then gradually slowed them.
