by Brent Pilkey
Taylor paused, freed one hand to wipe tears from his eyes. He drew a deep shuddering breath and plunged on.
“One day at school Sara got her period. It was her first one and she was wearing this white dress and it got covered in blood. She kept begging me to have Mom pick her up. I guess she was really embarrassed.” Taylor sniggered, a heartless sound barely above a growl. “Dad was drunk, of course, so Mom came to get Sara but she wasn’t much better. On the way home, she crashed the car, killing herself and Sara. She was thirteen years old.”
“Oh, Taylor, I’m so sorry.” Sandra squeezed his hands as tears trickled down her cheeks.
But Taylor didn’t hear Sandra. He was too deep into the past; he could not retreat. All he could do was push ahead, see the hellish journey to its end.
“Dad blamed me, of course. Said I should have made Sara walk home, said I should have known women were weak and had to be told what to do. Said it was my fault, for relying on Mom.” Taylor laughed again, a hollow sound. “You know, I don’t know if he even cared that they were gone; I never saw him cry. He just drank more.”
Taylor sighed heavily, the journey almost done. “He ended up losing his job and we moved to some shithole town outside of Sault Ste. Marie too little to even have a name. I tried to please him, tried to be the son he wanted, but I was never good enough. He died when I was eighteen.”
“And you’ve been alone ever since?”
“Pretty much,” Taylor said with a sad smile. “I moved to Toronto. Thought I could start a new life here on my own. I’ve been here four years now and haven’t got shit to show for it.”
“That’s not true,” Sandra argued. “You have a good job, friends at work and you have me . . . if you’ll have me.” She caressed his cheek, kissed away his tears, met his lips with hers.
A passion, a need, flared alive in Taylor’s soul, and he pulled Sandra to him, wrapped her in his powerful arms. The taste of her lips, her tongue, swept away the bitterness in his mouth that was Rico. One hand was entwined in her hair; the other slid to her breast. Sighing into his mouth, Sandra pulled aside her halter top, bared her flesh for his hand. Her hands travelled the length of his arms, kneading the muscles that quivered under her touch, slid over his shoulders and onto his muscular chest.
Taylor suddenly snatched her hands from his chest and held them away from him in a crushing grip.
Sandra cried out. “Ow! Taylor, you’re hurting me.”
“Oh! I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” He freed her hands and slid away from her, hunching protectively against her touch.
“Taylor, what’s wrong?” She extended a hand but pulled back when he cringed.
“My . . . chest. I have . . . scars,” he confessed, his voice ashamed and hurt. “My dad . . . burned me.” He glanced at his watch and surged to his feet. He held a hand out for her. “Come on. We should get to work.”
“Are you okay?”
“Yup. See?” Jenny hiked up her T-shirt to show her ribs were bruise-free. At the station she’d unknotted her shirt and let it hang loose. No way was she going to give Taft a show.
“That’s good, but it’s not what I meant,” Jack replied.
They were standing by Jenny’s Accord in the station’s personal parking lot. The sun was down and the sky was that deep indigo shade just before true dark. The evening had stolen some of the clamminess from the air but there was enough left skulking on the faint breezes to remind the city that it would return with the sun.
“I meant, how are you feeling? You don’t get a gun pressed into your side every day.”
“I’m . . .” She paused, considering. “Okay. Really.”
“Good,” he breathed out, as if he had been fearing her answer, then his face twisted up in a grimace. “I should have been there to help. Not that you didn’t handle him perfectly by yourself but I shouldn’t have left you alone. Not unarmed.” His head was bowed, his shoulders slumped, and to Jenny it seemed that invisible weight he’d been carrying for so long had just doubled in mass.
“Jack.” She placed a soft hand along his jaw and tilted his head up to meet her eyes. She was always amazed that they were the same height; for some reason she thought of him as taller. His brown eyes — with flecks of green in them, she’d learned working with him yesterday — were heavy with pain and an anger she could see him turning on himself.
Having a gun pulled on her had definitely rocked Jenny and she doubted she’d be sleeping all that well over the next few nights, but she wasn’t about to share that with Jack. She knew he still carried, to this day, guilt over Sy’s death. It was a piece of the burden he silently bore and she’d be damned if she was going to add to it.
“It wasn’t your fault,” she told him, locking her gaze on his. “It was Polan’s choice, his actions. Not mine. Not yours. And if you’d been with me, he would’ve walked right on past and attacked the next woman he saw. So, really, it was a good thing I was there by myself. And if you’d come around while he still had his gun, you probably would have shot him. And how bad would that have looked?”
Jack laughed, shaky and uncertain. “Yeah. Shooting the one witness from the bridge that the SIU weren’t able to track down. Yeah, I thought about that.”
“You were . . . lucky, that’s for sure,” she said, but had been about to say pushing your luck. Back in the laneway Tank had called for a scout car to transport Polan to the station — the MCU unmarked cars didn’t have caged back seats — after a side trip to the hospital to make sure Jenny’s kicks hadn’t shoved a broken rib into a lung or some other organ. Connor Lee and Paul Townsend had been the officers dispatched and they wasted no time bundling a handcuffed Polan into the back seat.
Tank and Kris were on Pembroke finishing off the last john while Jenny gave Connor and Paul the details of Polan’s arrest — she’d gotten his id from the hospital bracelet he was still wearing. The uniforms had their backs to the scout car and their eyes on Jenny’s stomach so she, watching over Connor’s shoulder, was the only one to see Jack head for the cruiser. He opened the rear door to duck inside briefly and was lost to her sight. She could still see Polan’s head through the rear window and wasn’t too surprised to see it violently jerk to the right. A moment later Jack was out and closing the door.
She was confident Jack didn’t know she had seen him hit Polan. An elbow most likely, with the close quarters of the back seat. But why? Jack wasn’t the type to go after a handcuffed prisoner. She didn’t think it was because of who Polan was and what he had done to Jack with Kayne; Jack had had murder in his eyes long before they’d learned the creep’s real name.
No. Jack had stepped over a line he had once told her he would never cross because of her, but who did he really want to punish? Polan or himself?
What was that old saying? Still waters run deep. She just didn’t want Jack to drown in those waters.
“Hey, it was a good day,” Jenny declared. “We scooped a bunch of johns, got a homicide in the making off the streets and you got to check me out in my slut clothes.”
Jack brightened a bit. “Yeah, it was a good day.”
“What was your favourite part?” she asked with a teasing smile.
“You have to ask?” he laughed, sounding more genuine this time.
“If you liked me today . . .” She opened her car door. “You’re going to love me tomorrow.”
She drove off, for the second time that day leaving Jack speechless.
Jack watched Jenny drive off then climbed into his old Ford. He slumped back in the seat, a haggard sigh escaping his lips as his hands quivered on the steering wheel. He stared at his fingers, watching them shiver in the heat before gripping the wheel to still them. How close had he come to losing Jenny today? When he had sprinted into the laneway and seen her holding that gun, an icy fear had seized his stomach. She had been doing the sweep unarmed, so that meant the asshole had pull
ed a gun on her. Never mind that he was crumpled at her feet like a mashed-up rag doll, the fucker had pulled a gun on her.
How close had she come to being shot?
It couldn’t happen again. Not because of him. He grabbed his left shoulder, wrapping his hand over the tattoo that lay beneath his shirt.
God, I miss you, Sy.
He should have never let Jenny go into that laneway alone, not unarmed. A partner, a friend, had already died because Jack had failed and it was a scar he would carry on his soul to the grave.
He knew what Jenny, what Karen, what the psychiatrist would say to his guilt, but none of them had been there. None of them had let Sy’s life bleed away between their fingers. God, it was almost a year ago and the pain was still as sharp, a knife tearing apart his sleep, a horror that would give him no peace.
What? Like I deserve peace? I let Sy die and today Jenny came God knows how close.
He wearily shook his head. He was exhausted; the fear and anger had consumed him and it had taken all of his control not to choke the life from Polan when he had leaned into the back seat of the scout car. He was sure no one had seen him elbow that little fuck in the head, sure no one had heard him warn Polan to never touch his partner again.
And then at the station when Jenny had told Jack who Polan was . . . Suddenly it had been too much for Jack and he had rushed to the bathroom where he had vomited until his stomach had clenched painfully on nothing. Then he had huddled on the floor, gripping the toilet as spasms trembled through his body.
Now he waited as the tremors quieted in his hands and he was once again in control of himself. He started the car and classic rock thumped from the speakers. He flinched at the sound and hurriedly scanned the radio stations until he found one playing calm classical music. Better.
The music and the routine drive home, up the winding parkway and along the bland, familiar 401, lulled his fears, soothed his anxiety. As he reached the edge of Toronto proper, he exited the highway at Port Union Road. A short drive north brought him to Twyn Rivers Drive.
The rough asphalt road dropped abruptly into a huge forested wilderness and as Jack left the streetlights behind he felt the last of his angst flow out the window to be lost in the darkness. The road snaked along the valley floor and after passing over an old-fashioned single-lane bridge, Jack came to a parking lot that opened up on his right. Gravel pinged off the Ford’s belly as the old car jounced over potholes. He passed several parked cars and gave them their privacy before easing to a stop and killing the engine.
Jack closed his eyes and simply listened to the sounds around him. The ticking of the motor as it cooled, the burble of the river flowing peacefully in the darkness, the buzz of night insects. He listened to everything and to nothing. It was quiet here, peaceful.
I should bring Justice here for a walk. He smiled at the picture of Justice splashing in the river in search of fish. I wonder if Karen would join us?
The thought of his wife reminded Jack that she had been with him the last time he had come to this spot. Again, almost a year ago. The night of the crack-house search warrant. The night he had been shot at.
He smiled in the dark. Karen had been the one driving, the one to choose to stop in this parking lot. She had attacked him with a frantic passion, fucking him madly. That had been a good day, possibly the last time he had been truly happy. Then Sy. The constant fights with Karen. Charles Anthony taking Karen hostage. Jack killing him. Kayne.
Was he going to add losing Karen to the list?
He sat up and wiped away the tears that had crept unnoticed down his cheeks.
Time to go before some cop comes along and finds me alone in the car while everyone else down here is with someone.
It was time to go home and see if it was not too late to save his marriage. The engine reluctantly chugged awake and Jack drove out of the darkness and back into his life.
The living room lights were on as Jack pulled into the driveway and his stomach fluttered at the sight. Whether in anticipation of seeing Karen or trepidation, he didn’t know.
Maybe a bit of both.
Justice was by his customary spot at the door. The shepherd slept in the front hall until Jack came home, no matter what shift Jack was on, then went with Jack to the master bedroom. And then it was to sleep on the floor by Jack’s side of the bed.
“Hi, hon.” Karen stepped into the front hall from the living room, a tentative smile on her face.
It was the first smile Jack had seen from her in weeks and it melted the apprehension in his belly. “Hi, Kare.” He took her in his arms and buried his face in her blond hair, breathing deep of her scent as he held her tight.
“We’ve been waiting for you,” she said, taking his hand and leading him to the living room.
We? Oh, fuck.
Karen’s parents, George and Evelyn Hawthorn, were sitting in those damned wing chairs, a gift from the Hawthorns. Jack had come to loathe the chairs; they were too pretentious for him. The leather-covered chairs were a constant reminder of the influence Karen’s parents had on their life. Jack had hoped Karen would throw them out after Charles Anthony had bound her to one, but the leather upholstery had been replaced and the chairs had resumed their sentinel duties in the living room.
Maybe I could teach Justice to chew on them.
“Mom and Dad stopped by earlier,” Karen explained as she hugged — clutched? — Jack’s arm. “Since you were getting home early tonight, they decided to wait and see you.”
I’m sure they did. “Hello, Evelyn. George,” Jack greeted civilly but on his guard; Karen’s parents never just stopped by. “Listen, Karen. I need to run upstairs and change. I’ll be quick.”
“Don’t bother changing on our account, Jack,” Hawthorn told him. “We’re all casual this evening.”
Casual for Hawthorn was a golf shirt and slacks that probably cost more than two of Jack’s suits. Karen’s father looked like he’d dropped a bit of weight; his middle-aged bulge definitely seemed smaller, but at the same time the grey at his temples appeared to be making inroads on his dark hair.
“I’ll just be a minute. I was working in old clothes today and spent most of it in the sun.” Jack disengaged his arm from Karen. “Back in a sec.”
Jack headed up the stairs, Justice a furry shadow behind him. In the washroom, he stripped off his shirt while Justice sat in the doorway watching him. Jack rinsed his face and ran a cold washcloth over his chest and arms. Even without the vest, he’d sweated like a bastard. How Jenny had handled standing out in the direct sunlight, he didn’t know.
“Well, what do you think?” Jack asked Justice. “Does this have the feel of a relaxed visit or an ambush?” Justice huffed softly. “Yeah, me, too.”
Relatively clean, Jack reached for his own golf shirt then paused. Grinning wickedly, he grabbed a black tee with CABBAGETOWN BAD BOYS stencilled across the back and a skull and crossbones over “51” on the breast. A copper had sold the shirts as a fundraiser for the station’s gym.
“If I’m going to war, I might as well carry my flag,” Jack rationalized. “And you’ve got my back, right?” he asked Justice and the shepherd came over to nuzzle against Jack’s thigh.
Karen frowned when she saw the shirt but she hid it so well Jack doubted her parents saw it at all. Jack settled onto the couch next to Karen, facing her parents across the glass coffee table. Justice curled up at Jack’s feet.
“Feeling better, Jack?” Evelyn asked as she brushed at the sleeve of her blouse in case Justice had dared to taint the silk with any dog hairs as he passed her chair.
“Much better, thank you. Thanks, hon.” Jack accepted a mug of tea from Karen and eased back on the couch, a content smile on his face. If they were here to gang up on him, he might as well let them have the opening barrage.
Hawthorn fired the first salvo. “I understand you’ve been clear
ed by the Special Investigations Unit.”
“I have,” Jack confirmed. And do I detect a note of disappointment in your voice, George?
“And you’re no longer working in the station?”
“Thankfully, no. I’m back on the road.”
“And you’re now partnered with a female officer who has a rather dubious reputation.” This from Evelyn. She was eying Jack antagonistically and Jack figured it had nothing to do with his new partner.
Jack’s smile disappeared. He rocked forward and set his mug on the table then fixed Evelyn with his own confrontational glare.
“I see Karen has kept you up to date. My new partner is Jennifer Alton. She’s a good friend, a good cop and a good person. I feel lucky to be working with her.”
“You can understand our concern, I’m sure,” Evelyn countered. “Working with a woman of such . . . loose morals.”
Jack laughed harshly and felt Karen flinch beside him. “Loose morals? Let me guess,” he said, turning to his wife. “You got that from your friend in 32, right?”
“I did and —” she started but Jack cut her off.
“And nothing. Your friend is too lazy and scared to go out on the road so she kissed ass until someone put her at the front desk and all she’s given you is gossip.” He surveyed the faces before him. “Do you really think I’d pair up with someone whose greatest talent is fucking other cops?”
“Jack, there’s no call for such language,” Hawthorn reprimanded.
Jack conceded his father-in-law a point. “Perhaps not, but you have to understand how I feel.”
“Oh? And how is that?” Hawthorn asked, slipping into his mentor persona, which probably worked so well with his admiring university students.
“I know the two of you didn’t just ‘stop by’ and this is far from a social visit. It feels more like an intervention.”
Hawthorn tapped a finger against his lips thoughtfully. “An intervention? And what would we be trying to save you from?”
