by Amy Cross
Joanna Mason
"Where's Dawson?" I ask as Mezki wanders into the office.
"Is that all you're ever gonna ask me from now on?" he replies, dropping a pile of papers on his desk. "Are you under the mistaken impression that I'm Michael Dawson's secretary?"
"Yes," I reply, "I am under that impression. So where the hell is he?"
Sighing, he takes a seat and logs onto his computer. "I have no idea," he says after a moment, "but you're not the only one who's been asking. Schumacher wants to talk to him too, but apparently his phone's off and no-one's quite sure what he's up to today."
"He's gone AWOL, huh?" I reply, feeling a faint glimmer of concern in the pit of my stomach. Glancing over at Dawson's desk, I can't help but think that this is very much out of character for him. In all the years I've known him, Dawson has never had his cellphone off, and he's always been busy working away on whatever case he's been assigned. The idea that he'd suddenly skip out of sight, even for half a day, seems strange. I need to find him.
"He'll be back," Mezki adds. "He always comes back."
"Tell him I need to talk to him," I reply, unable to shake a sense of concern.
"Tell him yourself."
"Just tell him," I say firmly, turning to Mezki. "Cut the bullshit and tell him if you see him. I need to talk to him about something important."
"Fine," Mezki replies with a faint smile. "What's up with you, anyway?"
"Mason!" a voice calls out from across the office. "Get in here! Now!"
"You're in trouble, huh?" Mezki continues, his smile becoming a full grin. "What've you done this time?"
"No idea," I reply with a sigh as I realize that whatever's wrong, Schumacher's probably going to tear a strip out of me. "Just tell Dawson to stick around if he appears, okay? I need to talk to him. It's important." With that, I turn and head across the office before reaching the door to Schmacher's room and leaning inside. I'm ready to deliver some kind of highly amusing quip, but to my surprise I see that Jordan Carver is sitting with Schumacher, and the pair of them look pretty pissed off about something.
"Come in," Schumacher says sternly. "Sit down."
Pushing the door shut, I approach the desk. "I'd rather stand," I say cautiously. "Medical advice."
"Do you know why I've called you in here?" Schumacher asks.
"Because you've missed my smiling face and witty remarks?"
He stares at me.
Jordan Carver stares at me too.
"What is it?" I ask wearily, realizing that whatever bullshit problem they've cooked up, it's going to take some of my time and attention to fix. It's not as if I have a whole lot of time left anyway, so I'd rather not have to waste it dealing with made-up issues.
"I've been speaking to Detective Carver," Schumacher continues, "and I have to say that I'm highly disturbed by some of the things he's told me about his experiences working with you over the past few days. I know you can be a little caustic, Jo, but this really seems to have gone a step too far and I truly believe that this is the last opportunity to fix the situation before it gets out of control."
"Snitch," I mutter, turning to Carver. Suddenly I can't help but think back to our conversation the other day about my illness, and I start to feel nauseous as it occurs to me that he might have come in here and told Schumacher the whole damn thing. If that's the case, then there's no way I can hide it anymore; pretty soon, the whole department is gonna know that I'm dying, and then I might as well just go ahead and quit now. I can't believe I told him the truth about my cancer.
"It has come to my attention," Schumacher continues, "that your attitude to your new partner could potentially cause this department some serious problems. Detective Carver has been keeping track of some of the things you've said to him over the past few days, and when he informed me of those things, I realized that we have a problem here, Jo." He pauses, as if he's hoping that I'll have some grand moment of realization. "I'm only going to ask you this once," he adds. "Is there anything you've said to Detective Carver that you think might have been... over the line?"
"In what way?" I ask, starting to think that maybe this isn't about my health after all.
"Just anything you can think of. I'm sure you must be able to come up with a few things that perhaps were a little ill-judged?"
I pause for a moment, trying to give the impression that I'm thinking real hard. "Nope," I add eventually. "I think I've been pretty much perfect."
Sighing, Schumacher picks up a piece of paper from his desk. "According to Detective Carver," he continues wearily, "after three days, you've insulted his intelligence numerous times; you've refused to accompany him to important meetings because you wish to indulge your own, more mercurial working methods; you've constantly argued with him and tried to denigrate his ideas; you've made numerous attempts to link your case to the case being worked on by Michael Dawson, for reasons that Detective Carver and I both believe are completely spurious; and on three separate occasions, you have referred to Detective Carver as Detective Hitler."
"But that -"
"Detective Hitler," Schumacher says again, more firmly this time. "Do you have any idea how offensive that is, Detective Mason? In just three days, you've insulted, harangued and ignored your new partner at every available opportunity, and your verbal abuse of him has taken reached the point where it could be a problem for the entire department."
"It was a joke," I reply, realizing that I need to calm things down a little. "Surely you can see that I was just joking, right?" I wait for him to say something, but I feel as if this whole situation is starting to unravel pretty damn fast. "The idea that I meant anything else is crazy," I continue. Again, I wait for him to say something, and slowly a sense of panic starts to grip me as I realize that he doesn't seem to understand. "It was a joke," I say again, "just... a joke. Right? Everyone jokes."
"And who laughed?" he asks.
"Well, I did," I reply, before turning to Carver. "You kind of smirked a little."
Carver stares blankly at me.
"It wasn't that kind of joke," I continue. "Come on, you guys both understand, right?"
"I'm just grateful that Detective Carver came to me about these concerns directly," Schumacher continues. "Frankly, he would have been justified in going straight to a lawyer. This department could have been sued for millions of dollars, Jo, simply because we allowed your behavior to continue in this manner."
"It was never my intention to cause trouble," Carver says calmly, turning to Schumacher. "My only aim in bringing this to your attention is to help protect the department from further trouble. There are some very litigious people in the world today, and any form of workplace bullying -"
"Bullying?" I reply, interrupting him.
"I think this amounts to bullying," Schumacher says, holding up Carver's list of complaints. "You wanted to get your own way, Jo, so you tried to bully your new partner into giving you what you wanted. You thought you could manipulate the situation to your own advantage. You've got a hell of an ego, Jo, and it helps you most of the time, but when it gets out of control, you have a tendency to go too far."
"Bullshit," I continue, my heart racing as I try to work out what's really happening here. There's no way Carver was actually bothered by my behavior, so he must be trying to twist the knife in an attempt to get rid of me. "I was just joking," I add. "Come on, you know what I'm like. Carver was winding me up and I wound him up a little in return. It's just healthy banter, and I thought he was man enough to take it. That's how things work between partners. Ask Dawson!"
"This isn't about Dawson," Schumacher replies. "This is about you and Detective Carver."
"At least Dawson can take a joke," I mutter.
"This is not a joke!" Schumacher shouts, louder than I've ever heard him shout before.
I stare at him, and suddenly I realize that I need to be careful in order to keep from bursting into tears. Damn it, I guess this must be another side effect from all those pills I was
taking. I never used to get so emotional, but now I find myself having to bite my bottom lip in an effort to stay in control.
"Jo," Schumacher continues, a little more calmly this time, "these are serious allegations. You might have thought you were joking, but you need to consider other people and their feelings, and the fact that your actions, even if they're intended as a kind of mocking banter, might be interpreted by others in a very different way."
"So we should just be robots when we talk to each other?" I ask.
"Jokes are supposed to be funny," he replies. "No-one's laughing here."
"If I might interrupt," Carver says, turning to me, "I want to stress that my intention here is not to cause you any distress, Detective Mason, or to embarrass you in any way. I feel that the matter can be settled if you simply commit to being a little more tolerant and thoughtful in future. Not just around me, but also around other colleagues and, indeed, the general public. A small adjustment to your attitude could make a big difference."
Staring at him, I realize that I've walked straight into this trap. He's been planning to drag me down all along, and that little heart-to-heart conversation the other day was just the icing on his cake. I let my guard down and gave him all the ammunition he needed, and now he's managed to take complete control. I feel angry, not only at him but also at myself. What the hell is wrong with me these days?
"Plus an apology," Schumacher adds.
I turn to him.
"I want you to apologize to Detective Carver," he continues.
"I don't really do apologies," I start to say. "I -"
"You're gonna do one this time," Schumacher replies. "If you want to avoid being suspended without pay and subjected to a lengthy disciplinary hearing, you'll damn well apologize."
"I'm sure Detective Mason doesn't want to spend the next six months or even year wrapped up with a disciplinary panel," Carver says, with a faint smile that makes clear his satisfaction. "I'm sure she has more pressing matters to attend to, and hopefully she'll understand that sometimes one has to set aside one's ego in order to create a more effective workplace environment."
"Jo?" Schumacher continues. "That apology?"
"I need to think about it," I reply, almost trembling with rage at the ease with which I've allowed Carver to skewer me.
"Don't think too long," Schumacher adds. "You need to apologize to him in person, with no sarcasm or bullshit, within twenty-four hours, or I'm gonna have to feed you to the wolves."
I take a deep breath. "Fine," I say eventually. "I'll definitely take that into consideration. Now is it okay if I get going? I have things to do."
"Don't make this harder than it has to be," Schumacher replies.
"Of course not," I tell him, before turning and heading out of the office as fast as I can without making it seem as if I'm panicking.
"Hey," Mezki says as I make my way past him. "You got -"
"Fuck off," I mutter, hurrying into the corridor and making my quickly to the bathroom, where I quickly lock myself in one of the cubicles.
Standing completely still, I stare at the wall as a kind of white-hot rage starts to wash through my body, filling my every atom with pure hatred. In all the years I've been alive, I've never once allowed someone to pull something like this on me, but I have to give Jordan Carver credit: he's really managed to corner me. The worst part is, I gave him all the ammunition he needed. I mean, sure, I might have been a little tough on him, and I guess I might have gone a little over the top from time to time. I was just joking, though, and any ordinary person would have been able to see that.
Dawson always understood when I was joking.
With tears starting to stream down my face, I lean back against the door and try to work out what I can do next. Although it's tempting to just walk away from the whole thing, I know deep down that I need to put Carver in his place and solve the case, just to prove a point. If that asshole thinks he's managed to get one over on me, he's wrong, and he's about to learn that I've still got a few tricks up my sleeve. There's no damn way I'm letting my career end like this.
John
By 8pm, I'm starting to think that something must be seriously wrong. There's no way that anyone, even a teenage girl, can spend seven hours at the mall, so it's looking increasingly likely that Claire must be up to something. She's probably looking for more ways to trip me up or, worse, she might even have gone to the police with what she knows. I can only pray that it's not too late, and that she comes home soon.
Just as I'm starting to give up hope, however, I hear a key in the lock, and moments later there's the telltale sound of a teenage girl crashing into the house.
"I'm back!" she calls out. "I ate while I was out!"
"That's fine," I mutter, staring down at the uneaten microwave waffles I made for dinner. To be honest, I don't really have much of an appetite.
"Where's Mom?" Claire asks as she comes through to the kitchen.
"Out," I reply, realizing that somehow I neglected to come up with a convincing cover story. Still, it should only take me a minute or two to dispatch Claire. I just need to keep my resolve. "She went out with Sheila."
"Who's Sheila?"
"Her best friend," I reply, before remembering that Sheila is actually Susan's best friend, not Barbara's. "I don't really know," I add. "You know how these things are. Believe it or not, I don't keep tabs on all your mother's acquaintances. I mean, there are so many people she meets when she's out and about, and it'd be a little weird if I knew all their names."
She stares at me.
"Don't you think?" I continue. "It'd be weird, wouldn't it?"
"Huh," she replies, grabbing a glass and heading to the sink.
Figuring that there's no time to waste, I stand up and walk over to her. Reaching into my pocket, I pull out the gun I loaded earlier and I hold it up, aiming straight at the back of her head while she pours herself a glass of water.
"The mall was crazy today," she says, still facing away from me.
"Uh-huh," I reply, preparing to pull the trigger. I just need to summon the strength; I've killed so many people lately, so why not one more?
"I thought I was never gonna -" she starts to say, before pausing suddenly.
I wait for a moment. Does she know? Seconds later, I spot movement on the faucet, and I realize that Claire's staring straight at my reflection.
"Jesus," I mutter, pulling the trigger.
At the last second, Claire ducks out of the way and the bullet smashes through the window. Stunned by the fact that I missed, I turn just in time to see Claire hurrying toward the door. I take a moment to aim and then I fire again; this time, I hit her leg just below the knee and she lets out a cry of pain as she tumbles down onto the kitchen floor.
I open my mouth to say something, but no words come out. Instead, I take a couple of steps closer and aim at the side of her head as she struggles to get up. Blood is pouring from the wound in her leg, and she's leaving a smeared trail as she desperately tries to get away. Holding the gun closer -
Before I have time to react, Claire suddenly kicks out at me and knocks my legs clean out from under me, sending me crashing down against the table with such force that I bite a slice off the side of my tongue when I land. Crying out as the pain and blood hit my mouth, I momentarily drop the gun, and as I reach up to my lips, I can already feel hot blood flowing from the injury. I spit a small slice of flesh out onto the floor, accompanied by a torrent of blood. The pain is excruciating, and as I turn and reach for my gun, I realize that Claire has managed to drag herself out into the hallway.
"Fuck!" I grunt, grabbing the gun and getting to my feet. I can see Claire hobbling toward the front door, and the pain in my mouth spurs me on to aim at her and fire several times. She ducks into the dining room as the glass in the hallway window shatters, but I can hear her still moving. Spitting more blood against the wall, I walk slowly and steadily through to find Claire, only to reach the bottom of the stairs and realize that there's
no sign of her.
I stand in silence for a moment.
I know she's still here.
She's hiding.
"Claire!" I call out, my voice barely recognizable as my mouth overflows with blood. "It's me! I just want to talk to you!" Sighing, I realize that this approach is useless. Heading through to the next room, I check behind the chairs before hurrying to the front room and -
Suddenly a heavy wooden object smashes into my face, knocking me cold down to the ground. I let out a grunt as I land, and more blood flows from my mouth. With the gun still in my hand, I start getting to my feet, only to have the wooden object slam into my chest with such force that I swear I feel a cracking sensation in my ribs.
"Where's Mom?" Claire screams, standing over me with a chair in her hands, ready to strike me again.
"You don't understand -"
"If you've hurt her," she continues, her voice trembling with fear, "I swear to God, I'll make sure you suffer." She pauses for a moment. "Where is she?"
"I'm sorry," I reply, trying to buy some time. "Claire, really -"
"You didn't kill her," she replies, staring at me with a look of horror on her face. "Please, tell me you didn't kill her."
Before she can hit me again, however, I hold the gun up and fire, blowing the chair out of her hands. Determined not to give her time to get away, I grab hold of her legs and rugby tackle her to the ground, before using one arm to force her body beneath my own; I aim the gun straight at her face and get ready to pull the trigger.
"Please, Dad," she whimpers, her eyes full of tears. "Don't hurt me -"
"Stop whimpering," I reply angrily, before realizing that despite everything that has happened, this is still my daughter. "I'm sorry," I add. "If I had time to explain, I would and you'd understand, but I don't. It's just better this way. Please, you just have to trust me. I love you, honey." With that, I pull the trigger...
