by Baxter Clare
“Probably not,” she admitted, disgusted with herself.
Noah heaved a bony shoulder. “You couldn’t have known it was gonna slip.”
“No, but I could have listened to you. You’ve got good guts, and maybe if I hadn’t been so hell-bent for Kennedy I’d have heard you.”
“That’s hindsight. Don’t start second-guessing.”
A cold smile twisted Frank’s face.
“That’s my specialty. We should go see how she’s doing.”
Frank started to rise, but Noah reached over and pushed her back down.
“Hold on. They know where we are.”
Frank was too tired to protest. Noah rubbed at a bloody smear on his wrist, and she waited patiently for him to continue.
“You know, I gotta tell you, I was fucking scared.”
Frank nodded her understanding.
“When I saw him standing there with his arm around her throat and the knife there…I didn’t know what to do. I just felt so helpless. And stupid. I just kept wondering how the hell did this happen? And Kennedy, man, she looked so scared. But she was calm, man, and I remember thinking I had to be calm, too. For her. And then outside, knowing you were both in there…but at least outside I was doing something, you know?”
Noah looked up anxiously, and Frank bent toward him.
“You did good, No. You don’t know how fucking glad I was that you were there. You handled Johnston beautifully. I know the commission’s gonna try and eat us alive, but you did great. I wouldn’t have done anything different than you did.”
“Lotta good it did us.”
“Hey. There was nothing else you could’ve done.”
The silence settled between them again. Frank tried not to remember the clutch of fear in her gut, or the moldy bathroom, or Johnston’s sudden shout. She did not want to remember the fear in the hallway trying to envelop her in its leathery wings or the disappearing white curl on Johnston’s do-rag, or him dancing herky-jerky with half his head gone. Least of all, she didn’t want to remember seeing Kennedy turn with her eyes too wide and her fingers red, and wanting to run as far and as fast as she could, screaming all the way. She didn’t want to and wouldn’t remember.
“You know what? After sitting in here with you, and with the way you shoot, I think you should get out of law enforcement and become a shrink.”
“Man, you’re not kidding. If I can get you to talk I can have an autistic kid’s life history in five minutes. And wait’ll you see my bill.”
They shared tired smiles. Frank slapped Noah’s leg and said, “Come on. Let’s go see how she’s doing.”
21
Frank sat in recovery with a sheaf of papers on her blood-stiffened lap. Jill and Johnnie had brought them for her after she’d sent Noah back to division. He’d wanted to stay and see what the doctor had to say, but Frank had him copying the Agoura and Peterson murder books. She might be officially off the case but she was goddamned if she was going to give it up. Noah tried to talk her out of it, but she’d slapped a wad of bills in his hand and told him to take the binders to Kinko’s and copy them there. She couldn’t order him to, she was ROD, so she asked him as a favor. Before Foubarelle or RHD got hold of them.
“Frank…,” Noah had sighed, trying to protest.
She’d gripped his shoulders.
“If not for me, then for Cassandra Nichols.” Cheap shot, she knew, but it worked.
“Shit.”
As Noah stuck the money in his pocket Frank told him, “When you’re done with that go home and kiss the kids, make love to your wife, and sleep as late as you want. Fuck those IAD bastards.”
Noah waved tiredly.
The doctor came out of the recovery room about an hour later and told her Kennedy was going to be alright. A flicker of relief penetrated the emptiness she felt. She asked if she could sit with Kennedy.
“After you clean yourself up,” he said.
Frank scrubbed the blood off her hands with her nails, catching a sorry glimpse of herself in the mirror. It was the best she could do without a shower and a change of clothes, but she didn’t foresee either of those in the near future. She snagged a tepid cup of coffee from a vending machine and settled into a chair next to Kennedy’s bed.
An IV stuck out of Kennedy’s hand and a half-dozen leads and wires monitored her vital functions. A large bandage plastered her neck. Kennedy’s head was still enclosed in a block, but the doctor was happy. He told Frank it was a damn good thing the ambulance arrived as soon as it did.
“She was this close,” he said, holding his fingertips slightly apart. Tunnel’s knife had jerked into her carotid artery, causing the massive blood loss and a precipitous drop in blood pressure. Once they’d stabilized her and gone in, the rip was easily repaired, but Kennedy was going to be laid up for a few weeks. Luchowski had called her father, who was too sick to fly out, and there was no one else on her emergency contact sheet. Frank had thought hard about that, finally deciding that Kennedy could stay with her. It was the least she could do.
Despite the fatigue that had settled into her bones like lead, Frank tried concentrating on the statement she was writing. But she couldn’t stop replaying the scene in Johnston’s apartment. She and Johnnie had been the first ones down the hall. It was hard for her to believe she hadn’t picked Tunnel up behind the doorway. If only she had, this never would have slipped out of her hands. She’d be home drinking a cool one, sitting on the couch in clean clothes, ignoring the TV while she wrote far less difficult reports.
And Kennedy’d still be getting to me, she thought. Frank glanced at the sleeping young woman and felt a wave of shame. Bleeding out on Tunnel’s floor, Kennedy hadn’t looked so cocky anymore. Frank squeezed her eyes against the similar image of Mag amid the candy bars, blowing pink spume. Both days, Frank’s pride had been running the show. She wondered how many times she was going to have to do this. How many trips to the hospital would it take before she got it right?
She had no answer. In fact, Frank felt like she had nothing at all. She’d lost Mag, she’d almost lost a cop in her command, she’d lost her case to RHD, and she’d lost her badge. She thought that must be how it felt to drown: words were useless, fighting just made you more tired, there was nothing to see but waves and waves and more waves behind them, and always the dark weight of the water trying to pull you under. At some point it probably felt good to give up. Frank wondered if she was there yet, but then a lifeboat bobbed into sight. It was the realization that Kennedy could be in the morgue instead of the hospital. It wasn’t a huge comfort, but it would do.
This close.
Remembering the grotesque spew and suck of Mag’s breathing, Frank gratefully watched the even rise and fall of Kennedy’s chest. The ride in the ambo, the waiting, blood everywhere—it was all too deja vu. It was Maggie again, but this time with a different script. Through her hazy fatigue, Frank wondered dimly if Kennedy wasn’t some kind of second chance.
Elbows on knees, chin against fists, Frank studied Kennedy’s still figure. An uncompromising determination gripped Frank, and the lifeboat she’d glimpsed on the horizon sailed closer.
As Kennedy came out of the anesthesia, a nurse bustled around her, asking how she felt.
“Fine,” she croaked, jerking Frank out of a shallow sleep.
“How’s the pain?” the nurse inquired. Kennedy seemed to think about it for a moment, then answered, “No pain.”
Her doctor joined them, saying, “You gave us a scare, young lady. You lost a lot of blood from a tear in your carotid artery. We patched it together but you’re going to have to take it easy for a while, not strain yourself.”
Kennedy nodded, and he patted her hand. “We’re going to keep you here a little longer, make sure everything’s working right, then move you to a room.”
“How long do I have to stay here?”
“We’ll see. At least a couple of days. We want to give the artery a chance to knit itself together. We don’t want yo
u moving around right now and tearing it open.”
Frank could tell Kennedy wasn’t pleased with the answer though she nodded resignedly. When the nurse and doctor left Frank stood by the bed. “Still sleepy?” she asked.
Kennedy stared up at the ceiling before replying, “More stupid and foggy, really. And thirsty. I feel like I’ve been running through the Sahara.”
“I’ll see if they’ll let you have water yet.”
Frank returned a moment later with ice chips and slipped one into Kennedy’s mouth. “This’ll have to do for now.”
Kennedy glanced at the blood on Frank’s shirt.
“That all mine?”
“Sure is. And there was a helluva lot more.”
“You must have saved my life.”
“How do you figure that?”
“Keeping as much in as you did before the ambo got there.”
Frank didn’t know what to say. Taking credit for saving Kennedy’s life after she was the one who’d endangered it in the first place hardly seemed fair. Kennedy clamped her eyes shut, and thinking she was suddenly in pain, Frank asked, “What is it?”
Kennedy opened her eyes, and Frank was alarmed to see tears. “I almost died in there, didn’t I?” she whispered.
Frank swallowed hard, pushing her hands down in her pockets. She nodded at Kennedy, confused by an ugly knot of shame and guilt. Kennedy closed her eyes again as a tear slowly leaked out. Frank watched it slide down her temple, amazed, even slightly envious, at how easily Kennedy let it go. As she watched the tear fall, Frank walked into another part of the day’s script. With no warning, she remembered the shock that had hit her when she realized how close she’d been to dying, the pure terror of it.
Frank wanted to get the hell out of there. She wanted to go home and stand in the hot shower and drink a quart of Scotch and not remember anything ever again. A little voice in her head screamed for her to run as fast as she could. She could do that— just walk out and not look back. And she knew if she did, she was as good as dead.
When are you going to grow up?
Barely breathing, Frank took Kennedy’s hand. It was warm and smooth, and Kennedy’s fingers grabbed tightly. Frank marveled at Kennedy’s ability to cry, as if it were as natural as breathing. Before she could think about it, Frank reached out with her free hand to keep the fat drops from rolling into Kennedy’s ears. She was surprised and embarrassed by the tenderness of her gesture. She half expected Kennedy to tease her, but the detective only whispered, “Sorry.”
Frank shook her head. “Don’t be. Go ahead and cry. It’s pretty scary.”
“He was gonna kill me.”
Again Frank was speechless. She looked down at the hand in hers, the blood crusted in the knuckles and nails. She felt a dull justification in shooting Johnston, but it paled next to her regret.
Frank said, “I’m sorry I got you into this.” She heard the quaver in her voice and wondered if she was helping Kennedy or just shamelessly seeking her own absolution. Kennedy tried to shrug and winced. Wiping her tears, she said simply, “I’m a cop.”
“Yeah. And a damn good one.”
Frank squeezed Kennedy’s hand and she squeezed back. Frank had to clear her throat before she could ask, “More ice?”
“Yeah.”
Frank riddled with the slippery ice shavings while Kennedy recovered her bravado.
“So,” she teased, “are you being my personal slave-girl now?”
Frank considered the question. She didn’t think she’d ever be glad to hear Kennedy call her a slave-girl, but as she caught a piece of ice she grinned slightly. “Looks that way.”
“You look like somethin’ the cat ate and threw back up.”
When Kennedy woke up again, Frank was still in her ruined clothes, still working.
“Hey.”
Laying the statement aside, Frank noted, “You don’t look much better.”
Although the nurses had sponged off the worst of it, there was still gore matted in Kennedy’s hair. Betadine yellowed her jaw and neck.
“Want some more ice?”
“Yeah.”
Kennedy accepted it eagerly. Frank asked how she felt.
“Okay, I guess. Tired.”
“It’s been a long day.”
Frank waited to give her another chip, and Kennedy said, “For you, too. Why don’t you go home? You’re gonna start to stink the place up.”
Frank shrugged. “I just want to make sure you’re okay.”
“I’m fine. ‘Sides, that’s the nurses’ job.”
Frank slipped more ice in her mouth.
“Luchowski called your father, but he said he couldn’t make the long flight.”
“Yeah. He’s got emphysema pretty bad. It’s hard for him to get around.”
“Is there someone you want me to call?”
“No.”
“Then I’ll stay.”
Kennedy made a face and told Frank not to be silly. “I’m in a hospital, for Christ’s sake. What’s gonna happen to me?”
Frank didn’t know how to explain about the nightmares and cold sweats, or the screams that woke you out of your sleep and the terror that lingered even after you were awake.
“They’re probably going to move you soon. I’ll just make sure you get there and then I’ll go.”
Kennedy wisely declined to argue. Shortly after, she was transferred to a double room. The other bed was empty, and Kennedy joked about keeping it empty because she might want to have a party later on. She’d already charmed her nurses. After they settled her in and left, Kennedy told Frank to bring on the dancing girls. Frank had to admire Kennedy. Under all the shock and trauma, there was still a resilient vitality.
“The only dancing girls you’re going to be seeing are in your dreams, sport, so why don’t you try and get some more rest.”
“Not a bad idea.” Kennedy started to yawn, but the pull in her neck cut it short. “Only if you go home, though.”
Although Frank craved her bed and the merciful oblivion of sleep, she said, “Tell you what, I’ll stay with you until you fall asleep and then I’ll go.”
“Promise?”
Frank nodded.
“Alright.”
Kennedy promptly shut her eyes. Frank sat down, propping her bloodied shoes up on the other bed. She started on the statement again, but after a few minutes Kennedy asked somberly, “Have you ever been hurt on the line?”
Frank stared at the last sentence she wrote.
“Couple times.”
“What happened?”
“Different things.” Frank didn’t want to go into details. Kennedy was silent for a minute. Then she asked quietly, “What was the worst?”
Frank sighed, giving up on the report.
“Right after I made detective, my partner and I were talking to a woman and her boyfriend. Her baby’d been thrown out the window. Fell three stories, and they were insisting they knew nothing about it, that he must have just crawled over the windowsill. Problem was, the kid was only a couple months old. So I’m talking to the mother. My partner’s standing next to her, and all of sudden he gets this look, and he’s looking right behind me. I see him pull at his holster, and just as I’m crouching and turning to see what’s behind me, I feel this burn over my hip. Bastard shot me with a .38. My partner blew his fucking arm off. Turns out he’d dumped the baby and decided we were weren’t taking him in for it.”
Frank shrugged. End of story. But not for Kennedy.
“So what happened to you?”
“I was fine. By some…fluke, it went right through me. Exited the other side. I didn’t know that though until after I came out of surgery.”
“Did you think you were gonna die?”
Frank had told her story to the wall. Now she turned toward Kennedy, remembering what Noah had said, how she looked like Mag. Her eyes were serious for once, but they still burned. There was a hunger in them that made Frank more comfortable looking at the wall again.
<
br /> “I saw where it had gone in and figured it was pretty bad.”
“Were you scared?”
Frank scanned the smooth white paint for an answer. The shooting was another part of her past that Frank had walked away from without looking back. She’d never talked about it with Joe Girardi or her partner, and had managed to gloss over it during the shrink sessions. She’d acknowledged it only in the dark safety of Maggie’s arms after a flashback had sent her reeling, or a nightmare had yanked her from sleep. Slowly she squared the papers on her lap, then closed the folder around them.
“Yeah, I was scared. Not as much when it happened, but later. That’s when it hits you, is later, after you think it’s all over and everything’s okay.”
“Like how?” Kennedy persisted.
Frank twisted her invisible ring and took a long time to answer. She was so tired. She wished that Kennedy would go to sleep and quit dredging this shit up, but she bit back her irritation. This was why Kennedy’s script was different than Maggie’s. This was where Frank had a chance to right wrongs, maybe to grow up. It felt like an atonement, and Frank reasoned that penance was never easy. She’d gotten Kennedy into this mess and she’d see her through it.
“You’ll be talking to a wit, or just standing at the sink doing dishes, brushing your teeth—you can be doing anything—and then out of the blue it just hits you. You’ll feel where you got shot, you’ll see your partner’s face. You’ll hear his voice, feel the burn where the bullet went in, smell burned eggs and a full diaper pail…you’ll be there and it’ll be real. It’ll be happening all over again. And it’ll scare the crap out of you. Then afterwards you’ll think you’re going crazy, but they say it’s perfectly normal. Posttraumatic stress. There’s also the nightmares. They’re just as real. Sometimes worse than real.”
Frank faltered, her profile to Kennedy. She was haggard. Her jaw had softened and her shoulders hung slackly. Exhaustion had replaced tension. Frank’s hard veneer had cracked. When she spoke again it was with effort.
“You know you’re ROD for a while. You’ll have to talk to a shrink before you can go back to work.”
