by Layne, Lyssa
“No shit! Why don’t you quit wasting my time? Push your team into overtime if you have to, but get me cleared so I can find Marty’s killer.”
Brad stormed off, furious at Vince Roberts for treating him as if he had killed Marty. It was ludicrous to even think he could do something like that. Just what he needed right now, more guilt? He had enough of that to support the whole force.
Brad arrived at the emergency entrance, parking his car in the visitors’ lot. Spatters of Christine’s blood dotted his once pristine white shirt. With the shirt wrinkled and open at the neck he knew he looked a mess as he asked the nurse at the counter for Christine’s whereabouts.
The nurse pointed to the waiting room and said she’d notify the doctor of his presence.
Brad awoke with a start when his head jerked and hit his shoulder while he dozed. Checking his watch, he saw that it was four-thirty in the morning. Christine had been in the emergency room for over four hours and while he was pretty sure the head wound was just a graze, it was her leg that concerned him most. She’d be out of commission for quite awhile if the leg required more than a cast.
When he raised his head he saw that the waiting room, once littered with sick and hurt patients, now empty, except for him.
Rolling the kinks out of his neck, Brad stood, heading for the front desk.
“Excuse me, I’m looking for Christine Jansen. She was brought in by ambulance just after midnight.”
“Was she the shooting victim?”
Brad’s heart stopped beating. The air was sucked out of his lungs. “Victim? You mean she’s—”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to insinuate that we lost her, just that she was the woman involved in the shooting.”
“Yes, that’s her.” Brad couldn’t show his badge because he’d had to turn it in the night of the shooting. Since that wasn’t an option, he flat out lied. “I’m her fiancé. Can I see her now?” He’d known desperation when Marty died. This was much stronger, more intense than that. He needed to see her, and confirm that she was still among the living.
“The doctor just had her moved to a private room on the fourth floor. Normally, I would suggest you wait until morning to see her, let me check with the doctor first. He may not want her to have visitors yet.”
The nurse returned in less than a minute giving him directions to Christine’s room. She said she’d call ahead and let the nurse’s station know he was coming.
Brad would have kissed the nurse if he hadn’t been so anxious to see Christine. He thanked her and jogged to the nearest elevator. He pressed the call button, waiting impatiently for the machine to stop on the basement floor. “Damn things never move fast enough,” Brad muttered to himself.
When the doors opened, the silence on the fourth floor boomed in his ears leaving him icy cold. The stench of disinfectant and ammonia permeated the air, making his nose curl in disgust. The smell alone would make anyone sick. How did the patients stand it?
Brad stepped into Christine’s darkened room. The light in the corridor was more than enough to see her lying in the narrow bed closest to the door.
Her bandaged head rested on the pillow, her shoulders slightly propped up as she lay on her back.
Brad stepped closer, moving around to the far side of the bed so the hall lights would allow him a clear view of her face. He needed to see the rise and fall of her chest, confirming she could still breathe.
He took her hand in his and kissed it tenderly, then rubbed her satiny skin against his already rough cheek. He was grateful for the warm touch coming from her dainty limp hand. Gently he laid her hand at her side and stepped back to take in the entire sight of her. He lowered his hand to the calf of her left leg. His hand touched the flat of the bed. Stunned, he looked down and realized the lower half of her leg was missing.
Brad pulled his hand back as if scalded. His arm shook, his hand tingled. He felt himself growing faint as he stared down at the flat sheet and blanket.
Racing out of the room Brad found the stairs, lunged down four floors, taking the steps two at a time. His lungs burned from the strain.
Barely making it through the exit door, his stomach rebelled. He swallowed down the lump in his throat, the memory of Marty dying in his arms superimposed on top of the vision of Christine lying in bed and knowing he was responsible for the loss of her leg was more than he could take.
Not that he was squeamish about the loss of her leg, but with his memories of Marty still so fresh and new, and now this. A dreadful sense of déjà vu overwhelmed him. He promptly bent over emptied the contents of his stomach in the bushes.
***
The shooter slid from his hiding space behind the curtains in the empty half of bitch’s room, closest to the window. He managed to slip past the nurse’s station unnoticed to follow behind Brad at a safe distance. Disappointed after overhearing the prognosis from the orderly and nurse when they moved her into the room, he held his anger at bay that he hadn’t killed Brad. He let out a soft Mr. Hyde-like chuckle when he realized that hitting the woman would work in his favor. Yes, one way or another Brad Maxwell was definitely going down.
CHAPTER SIX
Brad had no idea how or when he made it home. He didn’t remember letting himself in the door, nor opening that first beer; much less drinking the next four in the following half hour, but the empties on the coffee table were proof.
On an empty stomach, with five beers running through his system he passed out on the living room couch. He remained blissfully ignorant, until three hours later when the horrors of reality, descended upon him.
The loud shrill of the phone woke him. He groan and looked at his watch only to discover that it was already after nine in the morning. In no shape to answer and he let the machine pick up.
Christine’s weakened voice spoke to him. “Brad? Are you there?”
The stress in her voice tied his stomach in knots. She sounded so frail. He sat up, elbows on his knees, and covered his face trying to blank out the memory of last night. How the hell was he ever going to look her in the eyes again?
He could pick up the phone, but what would he say to her? Sorry I cost you your leg.
Christine’s voice faltered, waiting for him to answer, but there was no way he could talk to her now. Not after what he’d done.
She hung up.
Silence echoed loudly in his ears, long after the line was disconnected. Guilt coursed through his veins, reinforcing his pounding headache that exploded behind his eyes. The mental image of her life's blood draining onto the sidewalk the night before gave him a chill. For half a second he contemplated drinking himself into oblivion and never come out of it, but diving into self-pity and bottle wasn't typically his style, no that was his father’s.
It was the shock of what he’d done to Christine, turning her a cripple that temporarily took over his actions. Fortunately, thanks to his grandparents, he was made of sterner stuff.
He hadn't been responsible for Marty's death, but the loss of Christine's leg was definitely his fault.
The phone rang again but he had no intention of answering, until he recognized his partner’s distinctive voice. It was so deep and husky, it reminded him of Sasquatch trying to sound sexy—and failing in a comical fashion.
“Brad, if you’re there, pick up. It’s important that I talk to you ASAP. If not, call me the second you come in. Got it?”
Something in the tone of Joe’s voice forced him to answer.
“What’s got you all fired up?” he asked, dreading the possibility of bad news.
“What the hell is wrong with your voice?”
“What do you mean?”
“If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were drunk as a skunk.”
“I was until a little while ago.” Brad leaned his head on the back of the couch, eyes closed, fighting off the hangover well on its way to becoming misery incarnate.
“I know you’re going through some nasty shit right now partner, but drinking isn
’t going to bring Marty back.”
“For Christ sake I know that? There's more to this and you know it.” With the receiver to his ear, he rolled his head from side to side trying to work the kinks out from sleeping with his too-long frame, on an uncomfortable short couch.
“That’s why I’m calling—what happened last night,” Joe’s response was clipped.
Brad sat forward, his curiosity piqued. “I know that tone. What’s going around the squad room?” Not that he wanted to hear what Joe had say. He’d heard enough the day he was asked to turn in his badge and firearm.
“Van Norton insists Captain Roberts fire you over the incident. He’s trying to convince Vince that you’re a loaded cannon just waiting to go off. I don’t know the whole story, that’s why I want to get it straight from you. I need to head off the situation before he goes to Internal Affairs with his allegations.”
Brad spent the next twenty minutes giving Joe a rundown of the sequence of events from the previous evening. He revealed every single detail, good and bad, right down to his discovery that his presence at her opening had cost Christine her leg.
“Whoa, Buddy, I'm sorry. I didn’t realize she’d been hurt that bad. The story being tossed around is that you have another victim.”
“Great! Don’t go spreading those details around. I still have to find a way to get up the nerve to face her.” Brad closed his eyes to block out the light that antagonized his already fierce headache. Only when he closed his eyes, he was haunted by the image of Christine without her leg.
“I have news for you, buddy, if you go there stinking drunk, I’ll guar-an-damn-tee you, you’re not going to win any contests for understanding-cop-of-the-year, much less her forgiveness.”
“No shit! I don’t know what to say to her…sorry doesn’t cover it.”
“Come on' dude, it's me, Joe. The only person who knew you better than me was Marty. I've known you a while now, and in that time, the one thing that still amazes me is how calm you are at the height of any given situation. You're always in control. Wish I could bottle what I've learned from you and sell it to every cadet coming out of the academy. I’d make a fortune. But never, in all these years, have you ever avoided a situation. Why now?”
Brad scooted to the edge of the couch, afraid to trust his legs to standing. “Don’t you see Joe, it all relates to my work, not my personal life. I was just getting to know Christine. Do you honestly think she’s going to want to see me again considering what I did to her last night? You know the shooter had to be aiming for me. How’s she ever going to forgive me for that?”
“Are you listening to yourself? After what you told me about this lady, what her pictures captured and what she plans to do with the profits of her show, do you really think she’s the type to hold this against you? If so, then you’re losing your touch. You’ve never been one to pick that kind of woman.”
“What kind of woman?” Brad gnashed his teeth, unsure if Joe was insulting Chris.
“Vain, self-centered, plastic. Need I say more? You’d rather go without a woman in your life, which you usually do, rather than be involved with a phony.”
“Yeah, so?” He was unable to mask his impatience and irritation. Conversation wasn't what he was looking for and this one was proving to be too long.
“Your standards are high when it comes to women. Kim and I have a running joke that the perfect woman for you is a statue of Venus. Beautiful. Magical. And totally unattainable. She simply doesn’t exist…except maybe in a museum, frozen in marble.”
“That’s where you’re wrong. I found her.” Brad’s shoulders sagged under the weight of the previous night and the high hopes he'd had for what could have been.
“Well—if you're so sure, put some faith in her. What have you got to lose?”
Brad didn’t know what to say, but Joe was right. If Christine was everything he believed, then she wouldn’t blame him for the loss her leg.
He hesitated, rubbed a hand over his stubbly jaw, then answered. “I get the picture. I’ll switch to black coffee, get my act together and head to the hospital. For both our sakes, I hope you’re right.”
Joe snorted. “Hey, I'm always right. And it's time for a little damage control around here. I'll see if I can get a good clear picture of what’s going on in Vince’s head.”
“Thanks, I really appreciate it.”
“What are partners for?”
“You’re right, sorry I forgot for a minute there.”
“I’ll forgive you this time, but you have to introduce me to your lady friend first chance you get. Can’t wait to see if she’s as good as you say. Keep in touch, will ya?”
“You got it.” Brad was beginning to feel hopeful. “I’ll find out when I get to the hospital.”
“Call me if anything else comes up. I don’t know why Van Norton's gunning for me, but I don’t like the feel of it.”
“Come on, Brad. He’s the brass, and the Governor is anxious for the public to calm down. Think how you’d be looking at him if the roles were reversed.”
“That’s just it, he knows better. It makes no sense, that’s why I don’t understand what’s up his ass.” Brad’s impatience was returning.
“You leave Van Norton to me. In the meantime, get your butt en route to the hospital and be extra nice to that gal. She deserves the attention, support and understanding, if she’s seeing your ugly mug.”
Brad chuckled for the first time in what felt like years. He was grateful for Joe’s call setting him straight. That’s what partners were about, being the other half of your conscience, giving you hell when you’re wrong and standing by you when you’re right. He realized, and not for the first time, how lucky he was to have had two of the best partners ever. Joe had become Brad’s partners after he and Marty were split up to become training instructors three years ago. Vince claimed they were the best and needed them to impart their knowledge with the new detectives coming in.
With his sobriety came insight and enlightenment. He was down to one remaining fear. Whoever gunned Marty down could be thinking of doing the same to Joe. And if that happened, Internal Affairs wouldn't bother to investigate any further.
Brad had one question and one question only. Who was the original target?
That's what he needed to find out.
Fast.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Christine lay in the hospital bed with her good leg bent at the knee, foot flat on the mattress. She held the edge of the sheet wadded in the white knuckled grip of her right hand, while she gnawed on the thumbnail of her left.
The cold, while, stark sterile room had her battling old memories. Memories best left forgotten. Too bad it was impossible.
She hated that she couldn’t stop dwelling on to tell Brad about her leg. It wasn’t something she talked about. In fact, very few people knew her prosthetic leg even existed. And that’s the way she liked it.
Once people knew, they tended to look at her through different eyes. The tendencies never varied. They would begin with pity then treat her like a piece of fragile glass. She was anything but that.
She’d learned that the hard way while going through her recovery.
Meeting Jared Williams was the best thing that had ever happened to her. He’d been assigned as her physical therapist and forced her to acknowledge just how much inner strength she possessed.
With frightening clarity, she was transported back to when she woke up in this same hospital almost four years ago, only to find the lower half of her left leg missing. Her blood ran cold reliving the moment she'd discovered she was a cripple.
She grieved for that leg, still had phantom feelings in toes that were no longer there, convinced her life was over. With time and Jared’s help she worked through the depression. It wasn’t easy. She didn’t just lose a piece of her body, but also her dream, which for her had been harder to let go of.
Now, she focused on her accomplishments and she no longer saw herself as handicapped in any way.<
br />
The memories continued to evoke a tremulous chill. Drawing the blankets up over her shoulders, she still couldn’t rid herself of the goose bumps shivering her body.
Dear sweet Jared. He hadn’t let her wallow in the self-pity she'd been determined to bury herself in. Instead, he'd gifted her with a camera and encouraged her to take pictures of people. He wanted her to learn to recognize every emotion on their faces. He challenged her to do something with her life despite her disability. Pushed her when she was sure her energy had all but evaporated.
He'd introduced her to the AIDS ward, showing her what real hopelessness was. His idea had been to force her to see she should be grateful to be alive, and have hopes for a future, when so many others did not have that privilege.
In the beginning she visited only with the children, feeling she had more to offer them. At least that’s what she told herself. Kids might blurt things out of simple curiosity, but at least they were honest with their responses. She later came to acknowledge that kids with challenges like the ones in the AIDS ward were less judgmental. Especially, at a time when she couldn’t handle seeing herself through the eyes of other adults—as a cripple, until she'd learned to walk with the prosthesis and realized others could benefit by Jared's lessons as well.
Christine shifted to her side and rubbed her hip. It ached, no doubt bruised from how she landed after the bullet tore through her prosthesis and knocked her leg out from under her.
What started off all those years ago as simply taking pictures of the children so they could exchange them with their new found friends, as mementos, soon turned into sadness, they soon became chronicles of their lives and ultimately deaths.
During the many long months of rehab and physical therapy, Jared managed to convince her to speak to a counselor. He'd insisted it was necessary for her mental healing.
She resisted at first, then acquiesced to shut him up and discovered the freedom of accepting what life had thrown at her.
