Those Who Walk in Darkness so-1

by John Ridley

  Bad enough he should die, Bo thought. Worse he should have to live through another loss like Reese. But hadn't he said that before? How many other cops had he outlived?

  Couldn't remember.

  He closed his eyes.

  Fiero, gun in mouth, was waiting for him.

  Something had to give.

  He looked to Kathy asleep beside him.

  Something had to change. Bo knew what. A decision got made.

  He closed his eyes again.

  Nothing but dark.

  For the first time in a long time the night belonged to Bo.

  Soledad got the call while she was out running. She ran with her cell phone. Habit. A habit she'd formed when she first landed MTac. An emergency call could come anytime, anywhere. Even when not on shift, an MTac was never fully off duty. Soledad hadn't been on the platoon long enough for her forced habit to have been of any use. Ironic now: Because of the habit, she was able to take a call about her future with the PD. It was Gayle calling.

  Gayle said: "It's going to happen Thursday. You and I are supposed to go in and sit down with your lieutenant."

  Asking, but afraid to know: "What's going to happen?"

  "I'm not sure. But I don't think… I have to be honest, it's not going to be good."

  "Is it like you said? Is there something going on? Something else?"

  "There's nothing I can find, nothing I can prove. Just what I believe."

  At Crescent Heights and Beverly, Soledad sat at a bus stop bench. A young girl, young woman really, who'd moved out from New York and didn't have a driver's license sat there, and a homeless guy sat there as well.

  Soledad: "So… what are they going to do? What's… Am I looking at suspension? Am I looking at—"

  "Honest to God, I don't know."

  And Soledad sat.

  "Soledad…"

  "I'm here."

  "I haven't given up, Soledad. Don't you, okay? I'm coming in there to kick ass. You know I will."

  "… Yeah…" Gayle's tough talk didn't much take.

  "Okay, so don't give up. All right?"

  "You're doing this for you. But this is my… it's all I've got."

  "And I'm still going to kick ass. Okay?"

  "Okay."

  "Okay. Just hang in there. Thursday. Okay?"

  "Yeah."

  Gayle hung up.

  Soledad hung up.

  An RTD bus pulled up at the stop. The young woman from New York got on.

  The homeless guy and Soledad stayed where they were.

  It was getting to the point when Ian and Soledad had sex, it was like they were having sex with each other and not just lying in bed masturbating with a stranger. It was getting to the point they were as concerned with the other's gratification as their own. Queer as it was for a measuring stick, it was getting to the point Ian and Soledad were starting to get intimate with each other.

  Starting to.

  But they were still in a place where, when they were done getting hot and sweaty, that's all they were: hot, sweaty among tossed sheets and with messed-up hair. Intimate, yeah, but they were intimate strangers. Strangers who shared sex. Strangers who shared empty talk.

  Usually that was the way of things.

  She figured it would've been Ian first, but Soledad was tired of empty talk.

  Soledad asked: "Your friends who died, is that why you don't get close to people; because you're afraid of losing someone else?"

  "I guess." Ian's answer was that simple.

  They lay in bed some.

  Soledad, asking again: "Are you curious why I don't let myself get close to people?"

  "I suppose."

  "Then why don't you ask me?"

  "Because we don't talk about that; about personal things. We don't talk, so I don't ask."

  "Then what are we doing? Besides screwing, what are we—"

  "You're the one who wanted it this way."

  Sweat evaporated from their bodies. Cooled them. They grew postsex tired. Soledad grew more relaxed. It freed her to say things she felt.

  She said: "I did. But I don't want this anymore. I want… I need—"

  "Need?"

  "I feel like I'm going crazy inside myself." Soledad clutched at her own chest."I feel like I'm rolling around a padded cell in here. I'm facing some hard issues, and I need to talk to somebody."

  "Need or want? Do you want to talk to me, or do you just need to yap to the first person who'll listen?"

  She had to think about that. She had to be sure."Want. I want to talk to you."

  "Okay."

  She said nothing.

  A little laugh, laughing at herself: "I can't. I've been keeping things in for so long…"

  "Just say what you want to say."

  "I like you, Ian. More than just being around you and having sex with you. I like you, and I'm afraid if I tell you… I'm afraid…"

  Under the covers Ian's hand found its way over to Soledad's, gripped it tight.

  Soledad's mouth opened and closed. A couple of times."I've been having trouble at work. Trouble's the nice way of saying it. It's been going on for a while, since just before I met you." A breath, deep."I'm a cop… you know what MTac is…"

  Ian's grip went slack.

  Soledad nearly bust with regret."Fuck. I shouldn't have told you."

  "Jesus…"

  "I knew—"

  "Jesus Christ… Why didn't you… You waited this long to—"

  "We never talked before."

  "You didn't talk! A thousand times you could've told me, and you didn't!"

  Soledad rolled away, turned to her side."Vin was right."

  "Who the hell—"

  "Another cop. He says cops and civvies never mix, can't be in relationships; you'd always be afraid I'm gonna get killed."

  "That's not it."

  "Then what is? Because I've been hit on by enough guys, seen how they react when I tell them what I do to know that's usually how things are. That, or maybe you're soft for freaks. Some people are like that. Or maybe you really are just afraid of a girl with a gun. Which is it, Ian? I mean, just so I know."

  "What's it matter?" Ian stared at the ceiling. Stared past it."What's it matter?"

  In her hands the bed linens got gripped and twisted."I told you I need someone to talk to. I want to talk with you, Ian. And I…"

  "You and me should've started off differently. I'm not blaming you, but as it is one of us should've ended things before they got so far. It was stupid to think we could make a relationship out of—"

  "I love you."

  That brought on a lot of stunned silence. Ian was stunned to hear it. Soledad was stunned to have heard herself say it.

  "I do. I love you, and… that you've put up with me this long, I don't just want us to be two people who sometimes talk and sometimes have sex. I want us to be two people who… who've got each other."

  "… Christ…"

  "I want to be with you. Ian, do you want to be with me?"

  Did he want to be with her?

  Did he?

  Did he want…

  Yes or no?

  In or out?

  No choice, really. Really, no other decision."Yeah, Soledad. I want to be with you."

  And then Soledad let herself go. More than just talk, she communicated. She told Ian in massive detail about her childhood and her upbringing. Mostly that was just self-preparation for everything else she had to say. She explained what had happened—for her personally—on May Day; the guilt she carried and how it informed every decision she made every day following. She went on about the gun she'd put together, the trouble she faced, and when she got to that, she cried from exhaustion. She'd held so much in, so long, the rush of release made her weak. The fighting made her weak, battles on so many fronts—hot wars and cold wars and wars of subterfuge—that the competing desires of fighting back to win or sitting down to quit made her just want to lie down and die. Soledad truly wanted things to be over, one way or the other,
no longer caring which, that badly. A sense of duty and obligation had degraded into helplessness, self-doubt and a death wish.

  Ian pulled Soledad close. They wrapped themselves in each other, they held each other. Almost a warm moment. Would've been except for the trepidation of their new relationship that held them as well.

  There was a reason, Soledad found out, why executions—in civilized nations that put people to death—were held top of the morning instead of end of the day. You're going to die, you're going to die. No sense sitting around hoping the day's going to get better when clearly it's not. Soledad came to the realization on the Thursday she and Gayle were to have their sit-down with Rysher. She had to put in a full day, worked a full shift, prior to the meeting. It felt like she had to do chores, clean the rifle or knit the noose, before her own termination. The end was coming. It was going to be a bad end.

  Maybe.

  Or maybe her pessimism was being fueled by Gayle's paranoia: conspiracy talk and secret plans against her. She had used a gun she wasn't supposed to. Didn't the brass have to at least make a show of putting IA on the case? Hadn't Rysher backed her all the way to MTac? Hadn't he stuck his neck out for her plenty? And the looks she was getting—she thought she was getting—from the other cops: guy bullshit, or uniforms jealous they'd never make MTac? And didn't…

  Did it…

  Did it matter? It was over. Today, one way or the other, it was going to be over.

  Soledad checked the time. Gayle was typically late, and Soledad cursed at her. Gayle wanted to be late most times, fine. That was her style, okay. But when it counted, when it mattered? Soledad thought about heading on to Rysher's office. But she didn't want to sit alone, wait alone and unrepresented. Still it was better than letting Rysher wait, letting any compassion he had sour to resentment.

  And then she knew.

  The confusion she had, the anxiety, the twist Soledad had in her gut told her she didn't want things to be over. Over to the negative. More than anything she wanted to walk out of Rysher's office an MTac again. Crazy as the life was, she'd wanted it. She'd earned it. She'd leave it, when the time came, on her own terms. Not, God willing, stretched out by a freak and not pushed out by politics.

  And then Gayle was there. Only six minutes late. Felt like so much more. She apologized to Soledad without breaking stride for Rysher's office.

  All day, and Soledad hadn't hardly gotten herself ready for what was coming. She asked Gayle if everything was going to be okay, but Gayle was already making her way into Rysher's office and either didn't hear or just didn't want to answer the question in front of the lieutenant.

  Rysher was without expression.

  Tashjian was in the office. The guy nearly blended with the paneling.

  Some perfunctory pleasantries were passed back and forth. Gayle and Soledad sat. Rysher sat behind his desk. Tashjian stood a little to the side, a little behind Rysher. It was like he was working backup.

  There was a pregnant pause.

  Gayle said: "It's always hard to know where to begin in delicate matters like this. So let me make the first gesture. I was thinking," smiling to Rysher,"you could just apologize to my client, give her her position back. That's all we're asking for." To Soledad: "That's all you wanted, right?"

  Rysher's expression frosted over into a cool stare."Miss Senna, it's not your place to ask for anything."

  "I'm being nice up front, and believe me, that's not easy. So let's close things out while I'm still in a mood to be civil."

  "You're not helping the situation by being snide, Miss Senna."

  "I don't need help, and you calling me Miss is just pissing me off."

  Tashjian smirked, appreciative.

  Soledad's head dropped.

  Things were going south, were headed that way fast.

  "I think, for your own sake, you might consider some other representation." Rysher was talking to Soledad, concern loaded in his voice."The fact is the situation… I'm sorry, but it's going to be very serious. If your counsel doesn't take it seriously… well, for your own good I'm telling you to make considerations."

  From Gayle that got a laugh."Now you care about her well-being?"

  "I care about the well-being of every officer in my command. I especially care when their lives are put in danger by cops who don't seem to give a damn about how things work."

  "And, gee, you'd be meaning who?"

  Rysher, talking past Gayle, talking right to Soledad: "Is this who you wish to have representing you?"

  Gayle: "Representing her for what?"

  "O'Roark, is this the counsel—"

  "Hey, Rysher!" Gayle's voice cracked like a whip."Do not ignore me. I'm not one of your cops. I'm one of the taxpayers. You make your living off my dollars. You work for me, not the other way around. I asked you a question."

  Rysher said nothing. The fingers of his right hand drew up some. Going on, talking as if he hadn't been interrupted: "Where we go from here depends on you, O'Roark." Softening: "Soledad…"

  First time she'd heard him use the name in… how long had it been? The way he used it was tender. Tender like the fake soft touch of an abuser compared to his punch. It came to Soledad that Gayle had been very correct concerning things about Rysher.

  "If you're willing to cooperate, if you're willing to accept your responsibility in the death of Officer Bannon—"

  She was up, moving toward Rysher's desk. Gayle's hand grabbing her arm, pulling Soledad back, sitting her back down. Her voice, though, her voice kept hard-charging at Rysher."… Such bullshit! No! No fucking way are you going to—" The death of Reese? They were going to put Reese's death on her? Everything else, every other possible eventuality for the conclusion of things Soledad had prepared herself for, was ready to take. A reprimand, getting kicked off MTac, out of the LAPD: Any or all of that would've been fine. Not wanted, but handleable. But what she could not take, what she would not allow, was for them to blame her for what happened to Reese."She saved my life. I would never…" To Gayle, frantic: "Tell them it's bullshit!"

  Still tugging at her arm: "Soledad…"

  "I had nothing to do with her dying!"

  Rysher, all full of lament: "Soledad, I… I did not want this."

  Soledad to Gayle: "Do something!"

  "If you would consider stepping aside quietly. I could still… we could still work something out. Otherwise…" Rysher extended a hand toward Tashjian.

  Tashjian put in Rysher's hand documents collected in a file. He took out a stick of Big Red, popped it in his mouth.

  Tears in her eyes, now Soledad was grabbing at Gayle's arm: "Do something!"

  If Gayle did anything more than remain where she sat, you couldn't tell by looking at her.

  With all the mournfulness he could pull together Rysher said: "Upon completion of an exhaustive investigation conducted by Internal Affairs Division, it has been concluded that you were grossly negligent in the execution of your duties. Based on these findings, I regret I have no choice but to turn the matter over to the District Attorney's Office with the recommendation—"

  And Gayle said: "How many contracts does the city have with gun manufacturers?"

  Rysher stopped talking but didn't respond to Gayle.

  Gayle said again: "How many contracts to purchase weapons does the city have with gun manufacturers?"

  "What difference does it—"

  "Heckler and Koch, Benelli, Smith and Wesson, Colt, Remington, Robar… And that's just the hardware MTac uses. All very specialized weapons. Expensive weapons."

  Turning toward Soledad, Rysher shut out Gayle."Soledad, I will personally contact a PPL lawyer if you need—"

  Again, Gayle: "They are very expensive and very specialized weapons, right?"

  Same as flesh-eating bacteria, Rysher couldn't ignore Gayle."You want MTacs to make calls with their empty hands?"

  "Now, how are you going to kill innocent metanormals without guns?" Gayle quipped.

  Rysher started to say someth
ing.

  Gayle cut him off with: "Sometimes I let my politics get the best of me. But fact is, the city spends hundreds of thousands of dollars purchasing weapons each year, every year. Over seven hundred thousand. And that's just in Los Angeles. Add up all the contracts from every PD in America, its tens of millions of dollars."

  "It's a fact, yes." So what? was Rysher's subtext.

  Soledad, missing it too, prayed Gayle had a" what." She looked to Tashjian. He chewed his gum. The finger of his right hand swept back and forth, slowly, across his left palm. He was bored.

  "The point," Gayle talking,"is these manufacturers are probably real thankful for their big green PD contracts. The point is these manufacturers know how to show their gratitude to the guys who keep their coffers filled. I'm not saying they're kicking back money. I'd never say that about people who make things to kill other people with. And most everybody's too wise to payola anyway. But maybe when, say, a guy who was really helpful to one of those com-panies retires from a PD, he could pretty easily have himself a very nice consulting job waiting for him to help pad out his pension."

  Rysher had nothing to say.

  Gayle kept on."Only, one day, you, the department, start getting submissions from one of your own about a garage-built modification of a specialty market weapon designed for killing metanormals. And on paper the thing looks like it could actually work. Problem is, you start using that gun, HK, S&W, Benelli and the rest, they lose their contracts, lose all that money. And I'm guessing these companies aren't going to want the guys who've lost money for them around as consultants. But having a gun look good on paper is nothing. Papers have a way of getting lost. Or tossed in a shredder in the middle of the night. And nobody has to hear about the gun. Except the person who modified the gun—I like to call her Soledad—ends up on MTac. Then she actually has the balls to ignore regulations and use her piece. And that's what screwed things up, isn't it?"