Rhapsody for Two #6: Collateral
TITLE: Collateral
AUTHOR: fixomnia
PAIRING: Flack/Angell
RATING: It's an M. Adults dealing with adult things.
SPOILERS: Various Flack/Angell scenes from Season 3-5, and Flack's season 6.
Chapter Summary: We all know what happens in this one. But life goes on regardless...
Author's Note:
Hanky alert. Many tissues gave their lives in the pursuit of this chapter.
It's been a long time coming, but then, I thought I was nearly finished this whole thing - I wasn't expecting to have to watch a whole parallel reality manifest itself into being! Let it not be said that writing is a one-sided monologue. I hear and deliver.
So here, then, is the in-canon version, give or take a couple of officers who never had any screen-time. Both it and the Wrinkle in Time Remix can stand on their own, but a lot more will make sense if both are read. (Wouldn't it be nice to be able to percieve some of the alternate realities that we don't follow, and see how many cosmic in-jokes we've missed? But then maybe that's where storytelling comes in...)
Anyway, enjoy. Let it all out. And then go and read the Remix version.
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Chapter Six
Collateral
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Perhaps this final act was meant
To clinch a lifetime's argument
That nothing comes from violence, and nothing ever could,
For all those born beneath an angry star,
Lest we forget how fragile we are...
- Sting, "Fragile"
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"Air Canada Flight 752, Laval Airport to LaGuardia, now offloading, Terminal M. Air Canada Flight 752, Terminal M."
Flack stopped pretending to watch the CNN Headline News on the wall-mounted plasma screen over the coffee area. He pitched his paper cup into the bin with a perfect rebound shot, and headed over to the Arrivals pass-door. It would take Jess a little time to make her way through Customs, but between her dual citizenship and security clearance level, she should be sailing through the door in a matter of minutes.
Not that Flack, detective of grim purpose and browbeater of whining murders and rapists, had spent a lot of time lately imagining his girlfriend safely within reach. Not at all. Not when she'd been away for eight interminable days, driving him mad with sultry phone calls after he should have been asleep. Especially not now that he knew about Kolovos, and Jess' role in the whole Greek drama.
Thanks to the usual osmotic information system in the bullpen, everyone seemed to be aware that this was the first time he and Jess had been apart since they'd gotten together. He'd expected to endure a week of endless ribbing. The level of sympathy he encountered was a new thing. He had no idea that he and Jess had become some sort of departmental romantic ideal, two cops who were actually making it work, on the job and at home. That kind of attention gave him the creeps, and made him even touchier.
He had a couple of apologies to make at the office, he thought, after a week of randomly grouching and snapping at people. The worst of it was that nobody even seemed put out. He'd nearly snatched a parole recommendation from Carmody's hands, saying that it was four hours late, and Carmody had just nodded, said he knew it, and pointed out a couple of paragraphs he needed to review. He came close to yelling at Ruth, High Priestess of the Records Room, and only the thought of the hell he'd be in for stopped him. Ruth had only patted his arm and asked after his parents.
He'd put in long hours all week, and had been a total bastard in the interview room. Sythe had mentioned it.
"Like having the old Flack back," he'd said. There was an inflection in his voice, though, that turned a typical cop jibe into a rather laden observation from an older man to a younger: You've changed. Hope you're taking the time to appreciate it.
His mood had improved somewhat after he'd been whisked out to dinner by Mac and Stella. They had filled in all of the blanks as to Stella and Jess' Greek Oddyssey. Mac had outlined the steps he'd taken with IA, to write the whole thing off as a semi-legitimate sting operation for which Stella might plausibly have thought she'd had his support in re-activating, after all. God knows how much career capital Mac had expended in so doing, but if Flack was reading the signs right - Mac was more than a little proud of Stella for the ultimate outcome, even if they had a fair deal of trust to rebuild between them.
At any rate, both Stella and Jess had ecsaped censure, even if they would both need to stay well under the departmental radar for a long time to come. Better if they weren't even seen lunching in the Mess together, but they were as thick as thieves, and they'd just spend time together in the batting cages and on the track instead.
Danny and Lindsay had made a point of having him and Sam for dinner. "We're a mess, but we've got all this food from people," Lindsay explained, "So you might as well come over while the eating's good and Lucy's sleeping most of the time. Elina made enough calzone for an entire Super Bowl weekend." So they'd turned up that evening, met by Danny at the apartment door with Lucy in her Baby Bjorn. Danny had raccoon eyes and his hair had taken on a life of its own. Flack could only laugh at them both, awkwardly stroking the baby's wispy curls. Lucy had Messer hair already.
They were just coming out of hibernation (and shock, admitted Lindsay), having had nobody over but Elina Messer, and briefly, Mac and Stella, in the short time they'd been home. They were glad to be sociable again, bantering back and forth like old times, taking photos of Flack holding Lucy, and Sam nibbling her fingers. He'd felt like a hulking brute, sitting with the week-old flyweight in his arms. The only time he'd ever held anyone so small was during an emergency highway-side delivery during his days on the patrol beat. It was incredible how much presence Lucy had. Within five minutes, she'd taught him exactly how she wanted to be held, and as soon as he'd gotten the hang of it, she'd fallen into a deep slumber on his chest. He was afraid to move a muscle in case he disturbed her.
Danny was unsympathetic. "Hey, I got twenty-one years of that comin' to me," he said.
Flack didn't have many female friends with babies, but he knew that for Lindsay to feel comfortable having them over so soon after Lucy's birth was a serious compliment. And, knowing her devious mind, it was probably one of her hands-on demonstrations of proof: that deep down, Flack really loved taking care of people, and that she trusted and liked the new-improved Samantha. And, incidentally, that such things as wives and babies weren't all that scary.
Flack thought hard about all of this, while watching the pass-doors between Customs and the Arrivals lounge.
The flight attendants emerged en masse, followed by a few families with little kids in strollers. An Indian couple came next, with two little boys, and mother in an embroidered blue salwar kameez. A pair of scruffy teenage backpackers followed, and then Jess appeared a moment later, looking like a cross between an adventurer and a travelling teenager herself, with her backpack and hiking boots, and her hair braided down her back.
Her whole face brightened as she spotted him. It was amazing how quickly he felt like a different man than he'd been all week.
They had a lot of talking to do, and soon, but for the moment, it didn't matter. The future seemed to be falling into place, and as long as they stayed honest and open with each other, they'd keep steering straight.
"Hey, you," he said, gathering her up. He knew he was wearing a goofy grin, and he really didn't care. She slid her arms around his neck and kissed him softly.
"Hey, you," she replied, smiling deep into his eyes, "Take me home, mon nounours."
"Your what?"
"My teddy bear," she grinned. He pulled a mock-scowl, then chuckled and hugged her tightly.
"I'm glad you're back," he said, with heartfelt simplicity.
He slung her backpack over one shoulder, took her hand in his, and they walked through the concourse together, just two lovers feeling for the first time the comfort and thrill of reuniting. There would be other homecoming meetings, he knew, when family and work and the need for a getaway came calling, but this one felt...decisive.
Jess was home, and so was he. Wherever they both happened to be.
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"Flack."
"Tonight. You, me, bottle of wine...I'll wear that black negligée I know you like."
This was based on strictly empirical evidence. The first time she'd worn it for him, she'd wound up pinned against her own living room wall in minutes, hungry kisses quickly cresting to surges of mindless need, the filmy silk hiked up and hanging off one shoulder, her legs pulling him deeper with every hard thrust. Yes, he liked it. And she needed him tonight, just like that.
"Mom?"
Yep, she'd gotten under his fair skin, and in public, by the sound of it. "Euch. Never mind. What're you doing?"
"Breaking up with an old friend. You?"
Informants come and informants go, she thought. "Babysitting," she replied, "Taking Connor Dunbrook over to the Grand Jury. With a murder rap hanging over his head, he decided to save his own ass and testify against Daddy. Should be enough to put Robert Dunbrook away for at least twenty years." She looked across the diner to their table, where the waitress was just setting down her plate. "The good son's treating us to breakfast."
"Lemme guess: Tillery Diner, two eggs over easy, turkey bacon on the crispy side, glass of O.J."
"Am I that predictable?" she asked, with deadpan irony. Sometimes she walked on the wild side and asked for sourdough toast instead of multi, but she rarely had to place an order anymore, in any of the diners she frequented.
"Yes, you're that predictable. All right, tonight sounds great. I'll pick up some stuff, and meet you at your place around - "
The hair on the back of her neck didn't rise, and she didn't see her life flash in front of her eyes. The world simply went to hell. The full-sized rig barreling through the front window of the diner might, she thought for a split second, have spun out on the street and lost control, but the deadly accurate muzzle-flashes from behind the half-open doors were no accident.
The phone dropped from her hand as she reached for her gun.
"DOWN!" she yelled. "Everybody down!"
Carmody, who had his vest on, leapt up to cover her, and Sigurdson ducked, ran, and shoved a few people out the back door. He managed to get the six nearest patrons out before turning back to the mêlée. Gunfire spattered the walls, and two wait staff went down, one shot in the arm and one in the side. People were screaming and running, some too panicked even to head for the door. Two figures in black were standing their ground on the floor, keeping their backs to the rig.
She flicked a glance around the diner. No sign of Connor, handcuffs and all. So she knew what was going down, and that people would die in here unless the assault team was stopped in their tracks immediately.
Carmody was trying to take down the driver, who was well shielded by the bulletproofed door of the rig. A figure in black jumped down from the passenger side. She knew he was wearing full body armor from the way he simply stood and surveyed the room. He spotted her, saw her gun, and pointed his Eagle straight at her. Unprotected as she was, she had a mere shadow of a chance.
She didn't even need to think.
Blocking out the chaos and the deafening racket, she went into combat stance and emptied her entire fucking clip at him, aiming for the joints, where his armor would be most vulnerable. He swore and grabbed his shoulder and she smiled grimly.
Something punched her in the upper chest. Was Carmody pushing her down? No - he was across the room, staring with a look of utter horror, and everything was moving very slowly.
Funny, they talked about being brothers and sisters in uniform, but she'd never known that Carmody really did think of her as his sister. She felt his shock and his love reaching her in waves. And heard clearly, as if he'd shouted, his fury at not having taken the hit himself, since he had a vest.
"Sig! Angell's hit!" he screamed.
I am? she thought.
"Shit!" hollered Sig. "Can't get there!"
She saw Sig, trying to cover a group of cowering civilians. She saw the look on his face, felt battle-logic warring with his need to help her. She tried to somehow telegraph to him to watch out for himself, and not to worry about her.
Then came a searing burn in her side, and she was knocked backwards off her feet. For a brief flicker of a moment she was more pissed than anything, thinking she'd just had the wind knocked out of her, and that she needed to get up on the instant.
Then came a swelling red agony of pain she hadn't known was even possible, taking her breath and her thoughts away for an interminable moment.
She understood, then. She registered that everything was growing quiet now. No more shooting. That was good. She heard people moaning, and tried to focus on Carmody, to get his attention, but her vision was blurring. She needed to report in. Connor had escaped. Sythe would be furious and Don would be horrified and helpless to assist her. She just needed to stay awake long enough to make her report...
She tried to roll over, and a fresh shockwave of pain took her breath again. She felt dizziness descending. The edges of her vision dimmed and shimmered, and she dropped out of consciousness for a moment. With a rattling, sucking breath, she blinked and opened her eyes again. She smelled blood all over, felt cold air on torn wet flesh, and knew it was a bad hit. She made a vast effort and managed to bring her hand up to cover the wound, but there was no strength left to put pressure on it.
Don, I'm so sorry...I don't know how much longer...
Her eyes dimmed again. This time everything stayed dark, though she knew her eyes were open. And then she heard sirens outside. Everything was soft and black, and the intolerable pain surely belonged to someone else, someone lying broken and bleeding out on the floor beneath her.
"Jess! Jess...hey, babe. Hey, I'm here. Can you look at me."
She knew his touch, and rolled her head towards the sound of his voice. He took her hand away from her side to look. Love, you shouldn't see me like this.
"Where's the ambulance?" he screamed. Then, babbling, nearly incoherent: "You're gonna be fine. Everything's gonna be fine..."
Strong, beloved arms lifting her, and a broad chest against her cheek. Are we dancing? We never went dancing...
Everything went fuzzy after that.
"Open the door! Help me get her in the car!"
Papa, il sera'n colère j'étais dans un combat...
A cacophony of sounds, sharp smells, only the burning pain keeping her from drifting away completely.
"Jess, stay with us. Stay with us."
Then: "She's out. Just as well: get her intubated and start a drip."
Mais moi, je suis ici, she thought, very clearly, as the sounds receded. Je peux te voir. Je peux t'entendre. La, c'est moi?
Moi, je quel suis?
Ca ne fait rien. Mais tu, tu as fait beaucoup.
Faisais-je?
Oui.
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He'd selected "Holst: Mercury, the Winged Messenger", and the music played softly through his small stereo. The bright instruments rattled in their stainless steel trays, as he wheeled the utility cart up to the autopsy bay. He glanced at the woman who lay perfectly still on the table, and reached up to change the angle of the video camera and light overhead. He folded the blue drape down to the end of the table.
Resting the heels of his hands on the table, he sighed, and thought back over the previous hour, standing in the Trauma OR with Don, before Jess was transported to the ME's suite.
"Sid, I can't bear the thought of her being autopsied." Don had confessed, the words tumbling out between scratchy gasps.
"I know. But I'll be with her the whole way, and..." He did not add, "I'll take care of her as if she were my own daughter." While the sentiment might have been true, there were few people in the world who would consider autopsying one's child an act of love. So Sid had learned in his career.
Don had been barely able to let go of Jessica's hand, and only by sheer inner grit had he prevented himself from gathering her up in his arms and sobbing against her. Sid privately thought that it would have done the younger man more good than swallowing hard and turning away. Death was impossible for the mind to grasp while she was still whole, still warm and pink.
It was cruel. The two should have had many long years of coming home safely to one another.
There were many things that Sid kept locked within his heart and mind. It was a light burden upon his shoulders, and he felt a certain responsibility for keeping the innocent secrets of the dead as much as speaking for them. Death cast a person's intimacies into a glaring light. Not today, however. Out of legal necessity, badge loyalty and friendship, Jessica was about to give up all the information her body could provide. And, while Sid could have, and probably should have, passed the post-mortem to an ME who hadn't known her so well, he would not give up this last service he could give her. When the two men next met, Sid knew, Don would grill him for every single detail, and not only to further the investigation into her death. Don would be looking, desperately grasping, for any last details of Jessica's life to hold onto.
He stroked her nut-brown fringe off her forehead, and smiled down at her, sadly. She appeared to be sleeping soundly, an ironic side-effect of having passed away completely relaxed, under sedation. He was glad, at any rate, that that was the image Don would eventually remember.
"I'm sorry I have to do this," he told her, "But you know better than anyone how important it is. And you know, if you're anywhere around, you might even find it a little bit interesting. I think I would, anyway."
He carefully cut away the white hospital gown with which one of the nurses had redressed her. How slight she was. He'd always thought of her as a powerful woman, striding along in her boots and leather jackets, but what there was of her was lean muscle over long, birdlike bones.
"Okay, honey, I'm going to start with the external exam."
He clipped his microphone to his collar and hit the power button on the camera's remote control.
Three hours later, he asked Rashida, whose elegant stitching was legendary, to put Jessica back together, while he went upstairs to transcribe his notes and heat up his lunch. Rashida nodded, grateful for something to do, and set to work. Neither wound nor Y-incision would be visible, once she was dressed in her uniform, but they would know they'd given her the best they could.
* * * * *
When the lab reports began coming back, he sat down to assemble his findings.
Beside "MEDICAL CAUSE OF DEATH" he typed: "Exsanguinary Hypoxia."
"DUE TO: Terminal shock from blood loss, pulmonary arterial rupture.
ANTECEDENT CAUSE: Bullet wound to upper left abdomen.
CLASSIFICATION OF DEATH: FOUL PLAY. Investigation ongoing.
TOXICOLOGY:
Heart blood:
Prescription drugs: Depot medroxyprogesterone acetate (Depo-Provera) last administered by injection 40 days prior, by Dr. Susan Hubanks, New York City.
Trace amounts of HCG present (confirms result from urinalysis.)
Negative for intoxicants, narcotics and non-prescription drugs
Urine:
Trace amounts of HCG present (Primary and control samples both tested)
Negative for intoxicants, narcotics and non-prescription drugs
HISTOPATHOLOGY:
Negative. Injuries sustained perimortem, with no reaction present in surrounding tissues.
RADIOLOGY:
Broken ribs L-VII, L-VIII, L-IX, R-IX, anterior aspect. Cracked ribs L-VI, R-VIII, anterior aspect. Consistent with direct and percussive bullet trauma.
Cracked unciform, right wrist, and dislocated fifth metacarpal, same site. Consistent with reflexive breaking of backwards fall.
EVIDENCE RECOVERY:
See report: "Glass Fragment Analysis"
See report: "Recovered Ballistics"
No trace evidence found.
SUMMARY OF AUTOPSY FINDINGS:
External examination:
Det. Angell was in excellent health and showed no signs of existing illness. Fatal trauma from bullet wound, upper left abdomen. Bullet was located and removed by trauma team prior to death. Glass shrapnel found in skin of middle left abdomen over localized area six by eight inches in size. Non-fatal bullet wound to upper left thoracic cavity. Keloid scar tissue present on outer right thigh and on back, below right shoulder, from documented duty events (2001, 2003.) Old surgical scars from appendectomy and laproscopic surgery on right knee. Evidence of recent sexual activity including minor bruising on hips and thighs. Of no consequence to fatal event."
He thought, scratched his jaw, backspaced over the entire line, and retyped: "No sexual trauma."
"Internal examination:
All organs presented within normal weight and size ranges (see full report), and in good condition prior to event. Left lung perforated and deflated (photos 5.1 - 5.3). Pulmonary artery badly compromised, with rupture 5mm x 12mm (photos 3.1 - 3.7, and endoscopic video from trauma surgery (see enclosed DVD. General tearing of smaller local blood vessels and tissue (photos 6.3 - 6.6). Upper left chest trauma from single 45mm bullet, which passed through with minimal tissue damage but for a nicked rib and cracked scapula. Left lung and pulmonary artery were perforated by single 50mm bullet. (see report: Recovered Ballistics). Glass fragments near wound were consistent with broken window glass from crime scene (photos 11.1 - 11.5; see lab report: 'Glass Fragment Analysis'). These fragments caused multiple lacerations and superficial severing of smaller blood vessels in area.
Trace amounts of HcG present in the urine and blood necessiated an intrauterine examination. 2 mm embedded embryo located under 4x direct camera magnification, therefore Det. Angell was 8-10 days pregnant. It is unlikely she was aware of this, and certainly she would not yet have had medical confirmation. No recent antibiotic prescriptions or evidence of antibiotic use has been found that could account for contraceptive failure. It is possible that she was within the >1% of Depo-Provera users who may conceive despite proper usage."
Sid stared thoughtfully at the screen for a moment before lowering his glasses and sitting back. How unbearably tempting to delete the entire last paragraph. Don was already acting like a man with nothing left to lose. His grim remark on Jessica's killers - "And God help them" - echoed in Sid's mind. But there it must stay. Not only did Don have a right to know, but it was important to learn how Jessica had managed to conceive in the first place.
His cellphone buzzed on the desk beside him. He noted the caller ID and sighed.
"Don, what can I do for you?"
"Hey, Sid. I - ah, got a couple of questions. About Jess. Just need to set my mind straight."
"Of course. You want me to come over to the station house?"
"There's a coffee stand across from the precinct, if that works."
"Yes, that works. I'll see you there."
* * * * *
The young detective looked grey and hollow-eyed, but Sid forebore from suggesting he go home. For a while, in the very beginning, work could be an anaesthetic, and a reason to keep breathing.
"Hey. Thanks for coming."
"No problem at all. What're you having?"
"Just tea." Don gestured to the steaming paper cup in his hand. "It's this stuff Jess gets when she's strung out. It's supposed to be relaxing. Tastes like weeds, but she says it works."
Sid overlooked the present tense. It would take time. "Probably a good idea. Single latte, no foam," he requested.
When they were sitting on a stone bench nearby, Don took a deep breath and launched into an obviously rehearsed speech. "So, you know I took Jess to the hospital in a squad car. The ambulance was nowhere and she had no time. What I gotta know is - " he swallowed and stared down into his tea, "I picked her up and ran with her to the car. Did I make it worse? Did I move something around that might have..."
"No. No, absolutely not." he reached out and touched the younger man's arm. "It was a fatal shot. You didn't do her any harm. Even if it happened right outside the OR, there would have been no chance. But they tried. She shouldn't have held out that long, but she did."
"What did they do? Why couldn't they save her?"
It was not a rhetorical plea but a direct question. Don needed strong, practical words to hold onto, and Sid was grateful to be able to explain, simply and clearly, all that the trauma team had done.
"There was no way they could access the site without removing the bullet, so that was their first task. It wasn't tamping down the wound - removing it didn't injure her any further. But it had done too much damage. Pulmonary arteries are hell to fix, because you can't reroute them anywhere. They can only go back to the lung, which was badly damaged already. First they tried clamping off the artery and putting her on a heart pump. They intubated her lung to reinflate, but it was bleeding badly inside. They had to cauterize the bleeding, and leave the lung deflated, against policy, so they could come back to it later, but she'd probably have lost part of it if she'd survived. They kept her going on one lung while they worked. They tried surgical glue and a synthetic graft onto the artery, like a bicycle tire patch, but the wound was too large, and there were micro-perforations that extended over two inches either side - so they couldn't just clip it all out and try to draw the ends together. They didn't have time to harvest a leg artery. They were about to attempt to induce hypothermia, to slow down all her vitals, but there was no time. She couldn't maintain any blood pressure, even with plasma and the machine. She'd lost too much."
The detective listened carefully, trying to take it all in. "They used armor-piercing rounds." he said starkly. "Even if she'd been wearing a vest, it wouldn't have made a difference. Just like wearing a t-shirt."
"Mac's got every pair of hands out there. You can help her best by taking care of yourself and being ready to move on whatever evidence turns up."
"You've been hanging around cops way too long."
"Yet here I am."
They sat in silence, sipping and watching the milling crowds on their evening commute. Sid's thoughts tumbled blindly as he sought for the words to speak of Jessica's pregnancy. It was hardly the time or place, but soon, he would have to say something. He'd need Don's help in retracing Jessica's habits in the past couple of weeks, and it would be sensitive territory to say the least.
"How are the others doing?" Sid asked, averting this thoughts for the present. "Carmody and Sigurdson?"
"In pieces. Not literally. Carmody got his arm grazed, that's all. He still thinks there's something he could've done for Jess, even though he'd have been taken out too. There's a whole family that wants to thank Sig for literally standing over them and saving their lives, and he can't even call them back. Neither of them will come near me."
"It'll take time. It's only been a few hours, Don. They know Jess took the same oath as they did."
"Yeah, she did. I like to think I'd have done the same as she did - but you never know till it happens to you, do you?" Don stood up. "Thanks, Doc. I gotta get back to work. You going home?"
"Yeah. The kids are home for reading break...we're having dinner. For once."
"Make the best of it," Don offered a small smile. Sid nodded and shook his hand.
He watched the younger man cross the street and disappear into the station house.
His thoughts returned to Jessica. Like a growing number of women in time-strapped professions, she depended upon a quarterly injection for birth control, as the method that necessitated the least amount of fuss and didn't require a regular daily schedule. It was over 99% effective, with no room for human error unless a scheduled injection was missed, which Jessica hadn't. What factors could open a window to conception? Antibiotics and antimicrobials had come up negative. Some problem with the Depo batch, in which case a full investigation needed to be launched? Lack of sleep or continued anxiety and stress could affect the timing of a woman's cycle, but that would have no effect on the drug's function.
Anxiety and stress... his mind whispered. This stuff Jess gets when she's strung out...tastes like weeds.
Neurons connected and pinged.
He looked towards the coffee stall and stood up. Pitching his empty cup into the garbage can to one side, he approached the barista. "Can I ask you something?"
"Yeah?"
"That tea my friend just had. The relaxing blend. Can you tell me what's in it?"
"Oh, it's on the box. Here." she handed him a standard sized box of teabags. Sid turned it over and ran his finger down the list of ingredients.
Peppermint leaves, chamomile flowers, St. John's Wort, wild sage leaves, and hibiscus flower.
Oh, no...
If Sid hadn't been a doctor, and moreover, hadn't been the kind of father who delighted in driving his kids crazy with scientifically backed lectures about their health, he wouldn't have seen the answer in front of him. But, being the sort of dad who now e-mailed his collegebound daughters the very latest in women's health research, he knew he'd found it.
St. John's Wort, often considered a safe, herbal remedy for mild stress and anxiety, suppressed the endocrine system, so that the nervous system literally didn't react as strongly to stimulus. These endocrinal effects meant that it could lower the effectiveness of hormone-based contraceptives. And if Jessica had had even two cups a day for a few days...
Add one couple committed and trusting enough not to use condoms anymore, and there you go.
"Thanks," he said, handing the box back.
"You want one?"
"Maybe later."
It'll be out of her system by now, but I can include an educated guess in the report. That's the easy part...but when the hell do I tell Don?
Right now. Right away. He has to know. And I'll have a few notices put up in the precinct bathrooms. Don't want this happening to anyone else.
He took a deep breath and crossed the street.
* * * * *
It wasn't nearly as bad as he expected. Which, he realized later on, should have given him pause for thought, but at the time, Don was still so deep in shock that very little else could touch him.
"We did something good," was Don's first quiet response, after Sid outlined his suppositions, sitting with him in a small private conference room.
"You guys did a huge amount of good."
"Not what I meant."
"No, I know what you meant. " He could see that Don wasn't talking about bringing a soul into being to increase any glory to be contained in a Catholic vision of Heaven, but of having reached a major milestone with Jessica in the short time they had. "I'm so sorry to have to tell you."
"No...there's nothin' to be sorry for. She didn't even know." he paused and shook his head slowly. "Maybe she does now. A week ago? God. She'd just got back from a family visit. She had all this work piled up after her break, and she was pulling fourteen, fifteen hour days...if I hadn't been staying with her, we'd never even have seen each other..."
The younger man was beginning to look a little shaky, prompting Sid to ask: "Can I call anyone for you? You don't look so good."
"No, no, I just gotta...I'll be fine. Sid, I'm glad it was you. I know you took good care of her."
"You know I have to leave it in the report. It's going to be read by others. The lab techs only saw the sample reference numbers, no name, so right now you and I are the only ones who know. I wish..."
Don shook his head again and masked a snuffle by scrubbing his face with a hand. "I know. But maybe you could do me a favor - send the full report only to Sythe, and to Mac? Then everyone's covered. They'll know what to do. It's just - too much to have out there."
"That I can do." he stood up, and pressed Don's shoulder. "These are just words, but it does get better. Over time."
"Mac said the same thing."
"He'd be one to know. Call me anytime, Don, if I can help."
"Hey, Doc? Just a thought...you don't know, do you...I mean, there's no way to tell..."
"No. Too early. Gender isn't differentiated until around two, two and a half weeks."
"It's probably just as well," Don said hollowly. "Less to imagine."
Sid nodded back. Less to torture himself with, he thought, sadly, and shut the door behind him. He kept within his heart the addendum: But genetically speaking, everyone's a girl at first.
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"Sam." His voice cracked, and he cleared his throat. "Hey, Sammy."
"Hey, Donnie," she said, in the quiet, hesitant voice he'd come to associate with her more difficult days of sobriety. "How you doin'?"
"I'm...not so good. Listen, I got some bad news. I wanted you to hear it from me. You might need to talk to whoever you talk to."
"What?" she asked sharply. "Is it Dad? Mom?"
"No, it's...it's Jess. She was killed yesterday morning. On duty." He took a breath. "She went down fighting."
She gasped aloud. "My God. Donnie, what happened? Oh, never mind, I know you can't tell me while it's...I'm so sorry. What can I do?"
He knew she wasn't trying to switch off her reactions or move to safer emotional ground. Like their father, she operated in practicalities, and staying busy in critical moments was the saving grace of both father and daughter. He appreciated that she was trying to care for him and look out for herself at the same time.
"Can you call Mom and Dad, and let them know? Tell them I'll talk to them later tonight." he asked. "And Nathan, too. They'll understand. They'll hear all the details soon enough. I just don't think I can...and I don't need their reactions on top of..."
"I got you. Don't worry 'bout it. What about Jess' people? You seen them yet?"
"I talked to Cliff. The funeral's tomorrow afternoon."
"They'll be glad to see you."
"They'll be so nice I don't know how I'll stand it."
"Same way we get always through stuff. One thing at a time. Her old man's a cop. They know what it's like. Hell, I know what it's like. You just stay safe, okay? And call me later. I'll tell Mom and Dad, don't worry."
"And Nathan. He didn't really know her, but they got on all right, that one time. He'll wanna know. Thanks, really. I know it's a lot to ask."
"No, no. You got plenty to deal with. Better it comes from me - you know how they get with emotional stuff." she said. Then, "Hey, Donnie?"
"Yeah?
"She was my friend, too. I really thought...I mean, I hoped..."
"Yeah. I know."
He hung up. He couldn't take any more. He knew Sam would understand.
* * * * *
Chérie was so gracious he nearly started crying again, even though he'd just spent ten minutes in his car managing to stop.
"Donald, it's good to see you," she said, kissing both his cheeks.
"You, too. Chérie, I'm so - "
Her mouth tightened - so like Jess, he thought - and she shook her head. "Non. From others, yes, but not from you. There's not a thing to be sorry for. It's we who are sorry for you."
He couldn't think of a thing to say, so he stared at the toe of his shoe and nodded.
"I know how you policemen need to stay detaché," Chérie went on, "So I know that this might be a hard request. But will you stay in touch? You have become very dear to us, you know."
"I will," he promised, though not at all sure if he could follow through. He cleared his throat. "My mother said to tell you she's thinking of you. Actually, she wanted to know if you’d like her to ask for a Mass said for Jess. She's going to call later on, when things have..."
Chérie nodded, her eyes glimmering. "Je comprends. Thank you, Donald. Cliff is in the living room. Will you go see him? I'm afraid Richard was called away - he'll be here in a half hour, and the other boys not until this evening."
Which was a rather skillful way of letting him know to make an early escape if he so chose, he realized. No question where Jess learned subtlety.
"Thanks."
He kissed her cheek, and went in search of Cliff.
He'd honestly thought that the next time he spoke with Cliff, it would be to do him the old-fashioned courtesy of letting him know he wanted to marry his daughter. Flack didn't think anyone would be surprised, even if they hadn't even been together a year. There would have been some serious heckling about her pregnancy, once the news came out, but nothing but genuine happiness for them at the heart of it.
He'd never tell them. It would only cause them needless pain.
Cliff was hard at work pushing reality away with finger sandwiches and a regular shots of bourbon, for which Flack couldn’t blame him in the least. Smiling and nodding pleasantly to the twenty or so guests who were currently in the living room, managed a genuine smile when he saw Flack.
"Thank God," he said quietly, gripping Flack's hand. "Someone who gets it."
Flack found himself almost wanting to laugh. He understood.
"Stay and talk to me for a bit, would you? Or just pretend." Cliff went on, eyeing the crowd.
"Oh, I think can put a few sentences together for you," Flack returned. "Looks like a good spread out there."
"Yeah. The church ladies show their love with food. And the neighbors."
"That’s a lot of love," Flack said softly. Cliff nodded.
Flack realized that the hardest part of his errand was upon him. He reached into his pocket and pulled out Jess' NYPD badge, and stared down at it for a moment. How many nights had it sat next to his, on one of their nightstands? Not nearly enough. Then there was the time they'd swapped without knowing it...Lindsay was the only one who noticed, and she'd never let him forget it...
He passed it to Cliff. It had been his once. He should never have had to take it back.
Cliff rubbed his thumb over the bright metal, and began talking.
"It was mine, you know. And my father's before that."
"Yes, I know. Wanted you to have it back."
Clif cleared his throat gruffly and nodded. He reached behind him, and picked up a framed photograph off the sideboard. "Four sons, and none of them wanted any part of bein' a cop. But Jess? It was in her blood. I wanted her to be a Girl Scout. She wound up a shortstop."
Flack had seen the photo on a previous visit, of a determined ten-year-old Jess at bat. It was a window on her life that had made him smile, but now, he felt the impact of the realization that there wouldn't ever be any children for them, no catch practice at dusk, no bedtime stories. No memories to look back on. Just possibilities turned to impossibilities.
His arms remembered the small weight of Lucy Messer, and the feeling of being compelled to watch over something so utterly helpless and tiny. He took a deep breath against rising tears. He couldn't tell Danny and Lindsay, either. Many years down the road, maybe, but not now.
"There was nothing I could've done to keep her from becomin' a cop."
"I wish I knew what to say..."
"You can tell me that she didn't die protecting that scumbag," Cliff ground out. "A murderer."
"No, I can't. But I can tell you that she did the job the best she could. No matter what the assignment. That's who she was."
"She was too damn brave for her own good."
"What I hear, she took after her old man," Flack offered.
Cliff shook his hand, hard, and managed a half-smile that Flack correctly interpreted to mean, You too, son.
Suddenly it was too much. It wasn't so much another oncoming crying jag as emotional claustrophobia. He and Cliff had been wavering between treating each other like fellow cops, and like family. While Cliff might have been okay with letting his guard down in his own house, Flack knew that he'd quickly break down in front of the whole assembly, if that happened.
"I got work to do," he said, somewhat lamely. He was about to turn away, but Cliff's voice stopped him, softer and more direct than before.
"Don. Jess always had a smile on her face. But the last few months, it was different. It was a smile I've never seen before."
This should've been where I cut in with "And sir, I intend to put that smile on her face every day for the rest of her life," Flack thought. Not anymore. But he had just enough left in him to make a son's vow, of a sort.
"I promise you that I won't stop..."
"I know." Cliff nodded. "I know."
He gave the older man a tight hug, trying to impart some sort of strength, or at least resilience. "You take care of yourself, all right?"
Flack left before Rick and his girlfriend Aislin turned up. They'd spoken by phone, and they'd meet later. Not now. Ash was an EMT, like Rick, and while the two of them spent less time in the line of fire than cops, their shifts were not without high drama, and they knew what it was like to be lovers and partners. They'd have an idea what he was going through, and he'd prefer to see them in the comfort of his own home, when he could disburden himself and talk about Jess without all of them trying to remain stoic. It would do them good.
He sat in his car, trying to take deep breaths and fend off more tears before heading into traffic. There were moments he felt it was ridiculous of him to cry so much. It wasn't going to bring her back, and only gave him a sick headache. Always in the next moment, he'd think that Jess, and the few months they'd shared, were worth shedding every tear in his body.
I should have been there. If I'd only been there...
Even though I wouldn't have been wearing a vest, either.
I'll work myself into the ground if I have to, Jess, to hunt these animals down. It's all I have left to do for you, and I wouldn't give it any less.
Even though it wouldn't bring her back.
Even if it meant shutting down some massive conspiracy, even if it meant accolades and mayoral thanks for everyone, it wouldn't bring Jess back.
Or their baby.
It was just senseless. There couldn't be a reason Jess and the baby were taken. There couldn't. What God would be so cruel?
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He came home after killing Simon Cade, and locked the apartment door behind him.
He locked the bathroom door, too, and stripped off his clothes with distaste, even though there was no trace on them. He'd already turned over the shirt with the residue-spattered cuff to Mac, as per protocol.
He moved quickly, his movements automatic, trying not to think. Turned on the shower and stripped off his clothes, leaving them on the floor. Stepped under the hot spray, rubbing his hands over his face and arms. He thought of Jess standing there with him, laughing, the horrors of another New York crime scene sluicing off them and away down the drain, washing each other clean.
He turned the hot water off with a jerk of his wrist, and cursed aloud at the painful shock of cold on his skin. He grit his teeth for as long as he could stand it, and gave up on the shower idea.
Jess was everywhere.
Cade was everywhere.
He pulled on fresh clothes, and headed into the living room. His cellphone was blinking with a message. He thought wildly that he was being called back by IA, and his heart pounded, but when he checked the number, it was Sam's. He sat down on the couch to listen.
"Hey, Donnie," Sam's voice came clearly through the speaker. "You did something for me once, and I never really got a chance to say thanks. So here...
There was a pause, and then he heard the voices of Peter Gabriel and Kate Bush.
"In this proud land, we grew up strong
We were wanted, all along
I was taught to fight, taught to win,
I never thought I could fail...
Rest your head, you worry too much.
It's gonna be all right.
When times get rough, you can fall back on us
Don't give up...please don't give up..."
Oh, Sammie, don't be proud of me. he thought. Not after what I did.
He buried his face in his hands and wept.
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"Everyone raise your glass, please."
This wasn't a bloodletting, or even a wake, thought it might well devolve into one. Each of them would find their own way through shock and grief, later on. This was a moment of honour. This was Stella, gathering their family around him, leading the way forward, with grace and dignity and resolve.
He knew gratitude, for Stella, for all of them. He knew love for them. But his feelings were scattershot among memories and the ache of the present.
He felt like this must be a waking nightmare, and any moment now, he'd hear Jess calling to him to wake up.
He felt like he was already marked as a killer, a vigilante, outside the laws of man and of God.
He felt like he was watching himself going mad, only he was as sane and clear-headed as he'd ever been in his life.
He only heard one out of every few words that were spoken at the bar, as if he was on the end of a faulty phone line. He needed Jess so badly he didn't know if he could stand up on his own legs. He needed to tell her he killed the man who killed her. He needed her to scream at him that it was the stupidest thing he'd ever done, and not to use her or their child as an excuse. He needed her to forgive him.
He needed to go home to her, and take her in his arms, and say, "Babe, you would not believe the day I've had," and she'd take him to bed to curl up with her head on his shoulder, and they'd talk until they were talked out. He needed the warmth of her skin grounding him, and the fierce, protective clutch of her embrace as she stood guard between him and his nightmares. As he did for her when she needed.
And never would again.
Never again.
Never again.
A car drove by, slowing as it passed the bar. Mac glanced towards it as if by instinct. And then with no warning, the world shattered.
Bullets sprayed into the quiet bar. Everywhere was exploding glass lancing through the air, and screaming patrons, the sound rising above the gunfire. All anyone could do was hit the ground, and it went on and on and on...
It was as if God had heard him wondering what it was like when Jess went down.
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Les traductions / Aistriúcháin:
"Mon nounours"
- My teddy bear / cuddle-bug
"Papa, il sera'n colère j'étais dans un autre combat..."
- Dad's gonna be pissed I got into another fight..."
"Mais moi, je suis ici...Je peux te voir. Je peux t'entendre. La, c'est moi?"
- But I'm here. I can see you. I can hear you. There, is that me?
"Et moi, je quel suis?"
- And what am I?
"Ca ne fait rien. Mais tu, tu as fait beaucoup."
- That doesn't matter. But you, you mattered.
"Faisais-je?"
- Did I?
"Oui."
- Yes.
"...detache..."
- Detached, disengaged
"Je comprends"
- I understand.
Now go and read the Wrinkle-in-Time version, and take a deep breath...
AUTHOR: fixomnia
PAIRING: Flack/Angell
RATING: It's an M. Adults dealing with adult things.
SPOILERS: Various Flack/Angell scenes from Season 3-5, and Flack's season 6.
Chapter Summary: We all know what happens in this one. But life goes on regardless...
Author's Note:
Hanky alert. Many tissues gave their lives in the pursuit of this chapter.
It's been a long time coming, but then, I thought I was nearly finished this whole thing - I wasn't expecting to have to watch a whole parallel reality manifest itself into being! Let it not be said that writing is a one-sided monologue. I hear and deliver.
So here, then, is the in-canon version, give or take a couple of officers who never had any screen-time. Both it and the Wrinkle in Time Remix can stand on their own, but a lot more will make sense if both are read. (Wouldn't it be nice to be able to percieve some of the alternate realities that we don't follow, and see how many cosmic in-jokes we've missed? But then maybe that's where storytelling comes in...)
Anyway, enjoy. Let it all out. And then go and read the Remix version.
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Chapter Six
Collateral
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Perhaps this final act was meant
To clinch a lifetime's argument
That nothing comes from violence, and nothing ever could,
For all those born beneath an angry star,
Lest we forget how fragile we are...
- Sting, "Fragile"
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"Air Canada Flight 752, Laval Airport to LaGuardia, now offloading, Terminal M. Air Canada Flight 752, Terminal M."
Flack stopped pretending to watch the CNN Headline News on the wall-mounted plasma screen over the coffee area. He pitched his paper cup into the bin with a perfect rebound shot, and headed over to the Arrivals pass-door. It would take Jess a little time to make her way through Customs, but between her dual citizenship and security clearance level, she should be sailing through the door in a matter of minutes.
Not that Flack, detective of grim purpose and browbeater of whining murders and rapists, had spent a lot of time lately imagining his girlfriend safely within reach. Not at all. Not when she'd been away for eight interminable days, driving him mad with sultry phone calls after he should have been asleep. Especially not now that he knew about Kolovos, and Jess' role in the whole Greek drama.
Thanks to the usual osmotic information system in the bullpen, everyone seemed to be aware that this was the first time he and Jess had been apart since they'd gotten together. He'd expected to endure a week of endless ribbing. The level of sympathy he encountered was a new thing. He had no idea that he and Jess had become some sort of departmental romantic ideal, two cops who were actually making it work, on the job and at home. That kind of attention gave him the creeps, and made him even touchier.
He had a couple of apologies to make at the office, he thought, after a week of randomly grouching and snapping at people. The worst of it was that nobody even seemed put out. He'd nearly snatched a parole recommendation from Carmody's hands, saying that it was four hours late, and Carmody had just nodded, said he knew it, and pointed out a couple of paragraphs he needed to review. He came close to yelling at Ruth, High Priestess of the Records Room, and only the thought of the hell he'd be in for stopped him. Ruth had only patted his arm and asked after his parents.
He'd put in long hours all week, and had been a total bastard in the interview room. Sythe had mentioned it.
"Like having the old Flack back," he'd said. There was an inflection in his voice, though, that turned a typical cop jibe into a rather laden observation from an older man to a younger: You've changed. Hope you're taking the time to appreciate it.
His mood had improved somewhat after he'd been whisked out to dinner by Mac and Stella. They had filled in all of the blanks as to Stella and Jess' Greek Oddyssey. Mac had outlined the steps he'd taken with IA, to write the whole thing off as a semi-legitimate sting operation for which Stella might plausibly have thought she'd had his support in re-activating, after all. God knows how much career capital Mac had expended in so doing, but if Flack was reading the signs right - Mac was more than a little proud of Stella for the ultimate outcome, even if they had a fair deal of trust to rebuild between them.
At any rate, both Stella and Jess had ecsaped censure, even if they would both need to stay well under the departmental radar for a long time to come. Better if they weren't even seen lunching in the Mess together, but they were as thick as thieves, and they'd just spend time together in the batting cages and on the track instead.
Danny and Lindsay had made a point of having him and Sam for dinner. "We're a mess, but we've got all this food from people," Lindsay explained, "So you might as well come over while the eating's good and Lucy's sleeping most of the time. Elina made enough calzone for an entire Super Bowl weekend." So they'd turned up that evening, met by Danny at the apartment door with Lucy in her Baby Bjorn. Danny had raccoon eyes and his hair had taken on a life of its own. Flack could only laugh at them both, awkwardly stroking the baby's wispy curls. Lucy had Messer hair already.
They were just coming out of hibernation (and shock, admitted Lindsay), having had nobody over but Elina Messer, and briefly, Mac and Stella, in the short time they'd been home. They were glad to be sociable again, bantering back and forth like old times, taking photos of Flack holding Lucy, and Sam nibbling her fingers. He'd felt like a hulking brute, sitting with the week-old flyweight in his arms. The only time he'd ever held anyone so small was during an emergency highway-side delivery during his days on the patrol beat. It was incredible how much presence Lucy had. Within five minutes, she'd taught him exactly how she wanted to be held, and as soon as he'd gotten the hang of it, she'd fallen into a deep slumber on his chest. He was afraid to move a muscle in case he disturbed her.
Danny was unsympathetic. "Hey, I got twenty-one years of that comin' to me," he said.
Flack didn't have many female friends with babies, but he knew that for Lindsay to feel comfortable having them over so soon after Lucy's birth was a serious compliment. And, knowing her devious mind, it was probably one of her hands-on demonstrations of proof: that deep down, Flack really loved taking care of people, and that she trusted and liked the new-improved Samantha. And, incidentally, that such things as wives and babies weren't all that scary.
Flack thought hard about all of this, while watching the pass-doors between Customs and the Arrivals lounge.
The flight attendants emerged en masse, followed by a few families with little kids in strollers. An Indian couple came next, with two little boys, and mother in an embroidered blue salwar kameez. A pair of scruffy teenage backpackers followed, and then Jess appeared a moment later, looking like a cross between an adventurer and a travelling teenager herself, with her backpack and hiking boots, and her hair braided down her back.
Her whole face brightened as she spotted him. It was amazing how quickly he felt like a different man than he'd been all week.
They had a lot of talking to do, and soon, but for the moment, it didn't matter. The future seemed to be falling into place, and as long as they stayed honest and open with each other, they'd keep steering straight.
"Hey, you," he said, gathering her up. He knew he was wearing a goofy grin, and he really didn't care. She slid her arms around his neck and kissed him softly.
"Hey, you," she replied, smiling deep into his eyes, "Take me home, mon nounours."
"Your what?"
"My teddy bear," she grinned. He pulled a mock-scowl, then chuckled and hugged her tightly.
"I'm glad you're back," he said, with heartfelt simplicity.
He slung her backpack over one shoulder, took her hand in his, and they walked through the concourse together, just two lovers feeling for the first time the comfort and thrill of reuniting. There would be other homecoming meetings, he knew, when family and work and the need for a getaway came calling, but this one felt...decisive.
Jess was home, and so was he. Wherever they both happened to be.
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"Flack."
"Tonight. You, me, bottle of wine...I'll wear that black negligée I know you like."
This was based on strictly empirical evidence. The first time she'd worn it for him, she'd wound up pinned against her own living room wall in minutes, hungry kisses quickly cresting to surges of mindless need, the filmy silk hiked up and hanging off one shoulder, her legs pulling him deeper with every hard thrust. Yes, he liked it. And she needed him tonight, just like that.
"Mom?"
Yep, she'd gotten under his fair skin, and in public, by the sound of it. "Euch. Never mind. What're you doing?"
"Breaking up with an old friend. You?"
Informants come and informants go, she thought. "Babysitting," she replied, "Taking Connor Dunbrook over to the Grand Jury. With a murder rap hanging over his head, he decided to save his own ass and testify against Daddy. Should be enough to put Robert Dunbrook away for at least twenty years." She looked across the diner to their table, where the waitress was just setting down her plate. "The good son's treating us to breakfast."
"Lemme guess: Tillery Diner, two eggs over easy, turkey bacon on the crispy side, glass of O.J."
"Am I that predictable?" she asked, with deadpan irony. Sometimes she walked on the wild side and asked for sourdough toast instead of multi, but she rarely had to place an order anymore, in any of the diners she frequented.
"Yes, you're that predictable. All right, tonight sounds great. I'll pick up some stuff, and meet you at your place around - "
The hair on the back of her neck didn't rise, and she didn't see her life flash in front of her eyes. The world simply went to hell. The full-sized rig barreling through the front window of the diner might, she thought for a split second, have spun out on the street and lost control, but the deadly accurate muzzle-flashes from behind the half-open doors were no accident.
The phone dropped from her hand as she reached for her gun.
"DOWN!" she yelled. "Everybody down!"
Carmody, who had his vest on, leapt up to cover her, and Sigurdson ducked, ran, and shoved a few people out the back door. He managed to get the six nearest patrons out before turning back to the mêlée. Gunfire spattered the walls, and two wait staff went down, one shot in the arm and one in the side. People were screaming and running, some too panicked even to head for the door. Two figures in black were standing their ground on the floor, keeping their backs to the rig.
She flicked a glance around the diner. No sign of Connor, handcuffs and all. So she knew what was going down, and that people would die in here unless the assault team was stopped in their tracks immediately.
Carmody was trying to take down the driver, who was well shielded by the bulletproofed door of the rig. A figure in black jumped down from the passenger side. She knew he was wearing full body armor from the way he simply stood and surveyed the room. He spotted her, saw her gun, and pointed his Eagle straight at her. Unprotected as she was, she had a mere shadow of a chance.
She didn't even need to think.
Blocking out the chaos and the deafening racket, she went into combat stance and emptied her entire fucking clip at him, aiming for the joints, where his armor would be most vulnerable. He swore and grabbed his shoulder and she smiled grimly.
Something punched her in the upper chest. Was Carmody pushing her down? No - he was across the room, staring with a look of utter horror, and everything was moving very slowly.
Funny, they talked about being brothers and sisters in uniform, but she'd never known that Carmody really did think of her as his sister. She felt his shock and his love reaching her in waves. And heard clearly, as if he'd shouted, his fury at not having taken the hit himself, since he had a vest.
"Sig! Angell's hit!" he screamed.
I am? she thought.
"Shit!" hollered Sig. "Can't get there!"
She saw Sig, trying to cover a group of cowering civilians. She saw the look on his face, felt battle-logic warring with his need to help her. She tried to somehow telegraph to him to watch out for himself, and not to worry about her.
Then came a searing burn in her side, and she was knocked backwards off her feet. For a brief flicker of a moment she was more pissed than anything, thinking she'd just had the wind knocked out of her, and that she needed to get up on the instant.
Then came a swelling red agony of pain she hadn't known was even possible, taking her breath and her thoughts away for an interminable moment.
She understood, then. She registered that everything was growing quiet now. No more shooting. That was good. She heard people moaning, and tried to focus on Carmody, to get his attention, but her vision was blurring. She needed to report in. Connor had escaped. Sythe would be furious and Don would be horrified and helpless to assist her. She just needed to stay awake long enough to make her report...
She tried to roll over, and a fresh shockwave of pain took her breath again. She felt dizziness descending. The edges of her vision dimmed and shimmered, and she dropped out of consciousness for a moment. With a rattling, sucking breath, she blinked and opened her eyes again. She smelled blood all over, felt cold air on torn wet flesh, and knew it was a bad hit. She made a vast effort and managed to bring her hand up to cover the wound, but there was no strength left to put pressure on it.
Don, I'm so sorry...I don't know how much longer...
Her eyes dimmed again. This time everything stayed dark, though she knew her eyes were open. And then she heard sirens outside. Everything was soft and black, and the intolerable pain surely belonged to someone else, someone lying broken and bleeding out on the floor beneath her.
"Jess! Jess...hey, babe. Hey, I'm here. Can you look at me."
She knew his touch, and rolled her head towards the sound of his voice. He took her hand away from her side to look. Love, you shouldn't see me like this.
"Where's the ambulance?" he screamed. Then, babbling, nearly incoherent: "You're gonna be fine. Everything's gonna be fine..."
Strong, beloved arms lifting her, and a broad chest against her cheek. Are we dancing? We never went dancing...
Everything went fuzzy after that.
"Open the door! Help me get her in the car!"
Papa, il sera'n colère j'étais dans un combat...
A cacophony of sounds, sharp smells, only the burning pain keeping her from drifting away completely.
"Jess, stay with us. Stay with us."
Then: "She's out. Just as well: get her intubated and start a drip."
Mais moi, je suis ici, she thought, very clearly, as the sounds receded. Je peux te voir. Je peux t'entendre. La, c'est moi?
Moi, je quel suis?
Ca ne fait rien. Mais tu, tu as fait beaucoup.
Faisais-je?
Oui.
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He'd selected "Holst: Mercury, the Winged Messenger", and the music played softly through his small stereo. The bright instruments rattled in their stainless steel trays, as he wheeled the utility cart up to the autopsy bay. He glanced at the woman who lay perfectly still on the table, and reached up to change the angle of the video camera and light overhead. He folded the blue drape down to the end of the table.
Resting the heels of his hands on the table, he sighed, and thought back over the previous hour, standing in the Trauma OR with Don, before Jess was transported to the ME's suite.
"Sid, I can't bear the thought of her being autopsied." Don had confessed, the words tumbling out between scratchy gasps.
"I know. But I'll be with her the whole way, and..." He did not add, "I'll take care of her as if she were my own daughter." While the sentiment might have been true, there were few people in the world who would consider autopsying one's child an act of love. So Sid had learned in his career.
Don had been barely able to let go of Jessica's hand, and only by sheer inner grit had he prevented himself from gathering her up in his arms and sobbing against her. Sid privately thought that it would have done the younger man more good than swallowing hard and turning away. Death was impossible for the mind to grasp while she was still whole, still warm and pink.
It was cruel. The two should have had many long years of coming home safely to one another.
There were many things that Sid kept locked within his heart and mind. It was a light burden upon his shoulders, and he felt a certain responsibility for keeping the innocent secrets of the dead as much as speaking for them. Death cast a person's intimacies into a glaring light. Not today, however. Out of legal necessity, badge loyalty and friendship, Jessica was about to give up all the information her body could provide. And, while Sid could have, and probably should have, passed the post-mortem to an ME who hadn't known her so well, he would not give up this last service he could give her. When the two men next met, Sid knew, Don would grill him for every single detail, and not only to further the investigation into her death. Don would be looking, desperately grasping, for any last details of Jessica's life to hold onto.
He stroked her nut-brown fringe off her forehead, and smiled down at her, sadly. She appeared to be sleeping soundly, an ironic side-effect of having passed away completely relaxed, under sedation. He was glad, at any rate, that that was the image Don would eventually remember.
"I'm sorry I have to do this," he told her, "But you know better than anyone how important it is. And you know, if you're anywhere around, you might even find it a little bit interesting. I think I would, anyway."
He carefully cut away the white hospital gown with which one of the nurses had redressed her. How slight she was. He'd always thought of her as a powerful woman, striding along in her boots and leather jackets, but what there was of her was lean muscle over long, birdlike bones.
"Okay, honey, I'm going to start with the external exam."
He clipped his microphone to his collar and hit the power button on the camera's remote control.
Three hours later, he asked Rashida, whose elegant stitching was legendary, to put Jessica back together, while he went upstairs to transcribe his notes and heat up his lunch. Rashida nodded, grateful for something to do, and set to work. Neither wound nor Y-incision would be visible, once she was dressed in her uniform, but they would know they'd given her the best they could.
* * * * *
When the lab reports began coming back, he sat down to assemble his findings.
Beside "MEDICAL CAUSE OF DEATH" he typed: "Exsanguinary Hypoxia."
"DUE TO: Terminal shock from blood loss, pulmonary arterial rupture.
ANTECEDENT CAUSE: Bullet wound to upper left abdomen.
CLASSIFICATION OF DEATH: FOUL PLAY. Investigation ongoing.
TOXICOLOGY:
Heart blood:
Prescription drugs: Depot medroxyprogesterone acetate (Depo-Provera) last administered by injection 40 days prior, by Dr. Susan Hubanks, New York City.
Trace amounts of HCG present (confirms result from urinalysis.)
Negative for intoxicants, narcotics and non-prescription drugs
Urine:
Trace amounts of HCG present (Primary and control samples both tested)
Negative for intoxicants, narcotics and non-prescription drugs
HISTOPATHOLOGY:
Negative. Injuries sustained perimortem, with no reaction present in surrounding tissues.
RADIOLOGY:
Broken ribs L-VII, L-VIII, L-IX, R-IX, anterior aspect. Cracked ribs L-VI, R-VIII, anterior aspect. Consistent with direct and percussive bullet trauma.
Cracked unciform, right wrist, and dislocated fifth metacarpal, same site. Consistent with reflexive breaking of backwards fall.
EVIDENCE RECOVERY:
See report: "Glass Fragment Analysis"
See report: "Recovered Ballistics"
No trace evidence found.
SUMMARY OF AUTOPSY FINDINGS:
External examination:
Det. Angell was in excellent health and showed no signs of existing illness. Fatal trauma from bullet wound, upper left abdomen. Bullet was located and removed by trauma team prior to death. Glass shrapnel found in skin of middle left abdomen over localized area six by eight inches in size. Non-fatal bullet wound to upper left thoracic cavity. Keloid scar tissue present on outer right thigh and on back, below right shoulder, from documented duty events (2001, 2003.) Old surgical scars from appendectomy and laproscopic surgery on right knee. Evidence of recent sexual activity including minor bruising on hips and thighs. Of no consequence to fatal event."
He thought, scratched his jaw, backspaced over the entire line, and retyped: "No sexual trauma."
"Internal examination:
All organs presented within normal weight and size ranges (see full report), and in good condition prior to event. Left lung perforated and deflated (photos 5.1 - 5.3). Pulmonary artery badly compromised, with rupture 5mm x 12mm (photos 3.1 - 3.7, and endoscopic video from trauma surgery (see enclosed DVD. General tearing of smaller local blood vessels and tissue (photos 6.3 - 6.6). Upper left chest trauma from single 45mm bullet, which passed through with minimal tissue damage but for a nicked rib and cracked scapula. Left lung and pulmonary artery were perforated by single 50mm bullet. (see report: Recovered Ballistics). Glass fragments near wound were consistent with broken window glass from crime scene (photos 11.1 - 11.5; see lab report: 'Glass Fragment Analysis'). These fragments caused multiple lacerations and superficial severing of smaller blood vessels in area.
Trace amounts of HcG present in the urine and blood necessiated an intrauterine examination. 2 mm embedded embryo located under 4x direct camera magnification, therefore Det. Angell was 8-10 days pregnant. It is unlikely she was aware of this, and certainly she would not yet have had medical confirmation. No recent antibiotic prescriptions or evidence of antibiotic use has been found that could account for contraceptive failure. It is possible that she was within the >1% of Depo-Provera users who may conceive despite proper usage."
Sid stared thoughtfully at the screen for a moment before lowering his glasses and sitting back. How unbearably tempting to delete the entire last paragraph. Don was already acting like a man with nothing left to lose. His grim remark on Jessica's killers - "And God help them" - echoed in Sid's mind. But there it must stay. Not only did Don have a right to know, but it was important to learn how Jessica had managed to conceive in the first place.
His cellphone buzzed on the desk beside him. He noted the caller ID and sighed.
"Don, what can I do for you?"
"Hey, Sid. I - ah, got a couple of questions. About Jess. Just need to set my mind straight."
"Of course. You want me to come over to the station house?"
"There's a coffee stand across from the precinct, if that works."
"Yes, that works. I'll see you there."
* * * * *
The young detective looked grey and hollow-eyed, but Sid forebore from suggesting he go home. For a while, in the very beginning, work could be an anaesthetic, and a reason to keep breathing.
"Hey. Thanks for coming."
"No problem at all. What're you having?"
"Just tea." Don gestured to the steaming paper cup in his hand. "It's this stuff Jess gets when she's strung out. It's supposed to be relaxing. Tastes like weeds, but she says it works."
Sid overlooked the present tense. It would take time. "Probably a good idea. Single latte, no foam," he requested.
When they were sitting on a stone bench nearby, Don took a deep breath and launched into an obviously rehearsed speech. "So, you know I took Jess to the hospital in a squad car. The ambulance was nowhere and she had no time. What I gotta know is - " he swallowed and stared down into his tea, "I picked her up and ran with her to the car. Did I make it worse? Did I move something around that might have..."
"No. No, absolutely not." he reached out and touched the younger man's arm. "It was a fatal shot. You didn't do her any harm. Even if it happened right outside the OR, there would have been no chance. But they tried. She shouldn't have held out that long, but she did."
"What did they do? Why couldn't they save her?"
It was not a rhetorical plea but a direct question. Don needed strong, practical words to hold onto, and Sid was grateful to be able to explain, simply and clearly, all that the trauma team had done.
"There was no way they could access the site without removing the bullet, so that was their first task. It wasn't tamping down the wound - removing it didn't injure her any further. But it had done too much damage. Pulmonary arteries are hell to fix, because you can't reroute them anywhere. They can only go back to the lung, which was badly damaged already. First they tried clamping off the artery and putting her on a heart pump. They intubated her lung to reinflate, but it was bleeding badly inside. They had to cauterize the bleeding, and leave the lung deflated, against policy, so they could come back to it later, but she'd probably have lost part of it if she'd survived. They kept her going on one lung while they worked. They tried surgical glue and a synthetic graft onto the artery, like a bicycle tire patch, but the wound was too large, and there were micro-perforations that extended over two inches either side - so they couldn't just clip it all out and try to draw the ends together. They didn't have time to harvest a leg artery. They were about to attempt to induce hypothermia, to slow down all her vitals, but there was no time. She couldn't maintain any blood pressure, even with plasma and the machine. She'd lost too much."
The detective listened carefully, trying to take it all in. "They used armor-piercing rounds." he said starkly. "Even if she'd been wearing a vest, it wouldn't have made a difference. Just like wearing a t-shirt."
"Mac's got every pair of hands out there. You can help her best by taking care of yourself and being ready to move on whatever evidence turns up."
"You've been hanging around cops way too long."
"Yet here I am."
They sat in silence, sipping and watching the milling crowds on their evening commute. Sid's thoughts tumbled blindly as he sought for the words to speak of Jessica's pregnancy. It was hardly the time or place, but soon, he would have to say something. He'd need Don's help in retracing Jessica's habits in the past couple of weeks, and it would be sensitive territory to say the least.
"How are the others doing?" Sid asked, averting this thoughts for the present. "Carmody and Sigurdson?"
"In pieces. Not literally. Carmody got his arm grazed, that's all. He still thinks there's something he could've done for Jess, even though he'd have been taken out too. There's a whole family that wants to thank Sig for literally standing over them and saving their lives, and he can't even call them back. Neither of them will come near me."
"It'll take time. It's only been a few hours, Don. They know Jess took the same oath as they did."
"Yeah, she did. I like to think I'd have done the same as she did - but you never know till it happens to you, do you?" Don stood up. "Thanks, Doc. I gotta get back to work. You going home?"
"Yeah. The kids are home for reading break...we're having dinner. For once."
"Make the best of it," Don offered a small smile. Sid nodded and shook his hand.
He watched the younger man cross the street and disappear into the station house.
His thoughts returned to Jessica. Like a growing number of women in time-strapped professions, she depended upon a quarterly injection for birth control, as the method that necessitated the least amount of fuss and didn't require a regular daily schedule. It was over 99% effective, with no room for human error unless a scheduled injection was missed, which Jessica hadn't. What factors could open a window to conception? Antibiotics and antimicrobials had come up negative. Some problem with the Depo batch, in which case a full investigation needed to be launched? Lack of sleep or continued anxiety and stress could affect the timing of a woman's cycle, but that would have no effect on the drug's function.
Anxiety and stress... his mind whispered. This stuff Jess gets when she's strung out...tastes like weeds.
Neurons connected and pinged.
He looked towards the coffee stall and stood up. Pitching his empty cup into the garbage can to one side, he approached the barista. "Can I ask you something?"
"Yeah?"
"That tea my friend just had. The relaxing blend. Can you tell me what's in it?"
"Oh, it's on the box. Here." she handed him a standard sized box of teabags. Sid turned it over and ran his finger down the list of ingredients.
Peppermint leaves, chamomile flowers, St. John's Wort, wild sage leaves, and hibiscus flower.
Oh, no...
If Sid hadn't been a doctor, and moreover, hadn't been the kind of father who delighted in driving his kids crazy with scientifically backed lectures about their health, he wouldn't have seen the answer in front of him. But, being the sort of dad who now e-mailed his collegebound daughters the very latest in women's health research, he knew he'd found it.
St. John's Wort, often considered a safe, herbal remedy for mild stress and anxiety, suppressed the endocrine system, so that the nervous system literally didn't react as strongly to stimulus. These endocrinal effects meant that it could lower the effectiveness of hormone-based contraceptives. And if Jessica had had even two cups a day for a few days...
Add one couple committed and trusting enough not to use condoms anymore, and there you go.
"Thanks," he said, handing the box back.
"You want one?"
"Maybe later."
It'll be out of her system by now, but I can include an educated guess in the report. That's the easy part...but when the hell do I tell Don?
Right now. Right away. He has to know. And I'll have a few notices put up in the precinct bathrooms. Don't want this happening to anyone else.
He took a deep breath and crossed the street.
* * * * *
It wasn't nearly as bad as he expected. Which, he realized later on, should have given him pause for thought, but at the time, Don was still so deep in shock that very little else could touch him.
"We did something good," was Don's first quiet response, after Sid outlined his suppositions, sitting with him in a small private conference room.
"You guys did a huge amount of good."
"Not what I meant."
"No, I know what you meant. " He could see that Don wasn't talking about bringing a soul into being to increase any glory to be contained in a Catholic vision of Heaven, but of having reached a major milestone with Jessica in the short time they had. "I'm so sorry to have to tell you."
"No...there's nothin' to be sorry for. She didn't even know." he paused and shook his head slowly. "Maybe she does now. A week ago? God. She'd just got back from a family visit. She had all this work piled up after her break, and she was pulling fourteen, fifteen hour days...if I hadn't been staying with her, we'd never even have seen each other..."
The younger man was beginning to look a little shaky, prompting Sid to ask: "Can I call anyone for you? You don't look so good."
"No, no, I just gotta...I'll be fine. Sid, I'm glad it was you. I know you took good care of her."
"You know I have to leave it in the report. It's going to be read by others. The lab techs only saw the sample reference numbers, no name, so right now you and I are the only ones who know. I wish..."
Don shook his head again and masked a snuffle by scrubbing his face with a hand. "I know. But maybe you could do me a favor - send the full report only to Sythe, and to Mac? Then everyone's covered. They'll know what to do. It's just - too much to have out there."
"That I can do." he stood up, and pressed Don's shoulder. "These are just words, but it does get better. Over time."
"Mac said the same thing."
"He'd be one to know. Call me anytime, Don, if I can help."
"Hey, Doc? Just a thought...you don't know, do you...I mean, there's no way to tell..."
"No. Too early. Gender isn't differentiated until around two, two and a half weeks."
"It's probably just as well," Don said hollowly. "Less to imagine."
Sid nodded back. Less to torture himself with, he thought, sadly, and shut the door behind him. He kept within his heart the addendum: But genetically speaking, everyone's a girl at first.
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"Sam." His voice cracked, and he cleared his throat. "Hey, Sammy."
"Hey, Donnie," she said, in the quiet, hesitant voice he'd come to associate with her more difficult days of sobriety. "How you doin'?"
"I'm...not so good. Listen, I got some bad news. I wanted you to hear it from me. You might need to talk to whoever you talk to."
"What?" she asked sharply. "Is it Dad? Mom?"
"No, it's...it's Jess. She was killed yesterday morning. On duty." He took a breath. "She went down fighting."
She gasped aloud. "My God. Donnie, what happened? Oh, never mind, I know you can't tell me while it's...I'm so sorry. What can I do?"
He knew she wasn't trying to switch off her reactions or move to safer emotional ground. Like their father, she operated in practicalities, and staying busy in critical moments was the saving grace of both father and daughter. He appreciated that she was trying to care for him and look out for herself at the same time.
"Can you call Mom and Dad, and let them know? Tell them I'll talk to them later tonight." he asked. "And Nathan, too. They'll understand. They'll hear all the details soon enough. I just don't think I can...and I don't need their reactions on top of..."
"I got you. Don't worry 'bout it. What about Jess' people? You seen them yet?"
"I talked to Cliff. The funeral's tomorrow afternoon."
"They'll be glad to see you."
"They'll be so nice I don't know how I'll stand it."
"Same way we get always through stuff. One thing at a time. Her old man's a cop. They know what it's like. Hell, I know what it's like. You just stay safe, okay? And call me later. I'll tell Mom and Dad, don't worry."
"And Nathan. He didn't really know her, but they got on all right, that one time. He'll wanna know. Thanks, really. I know it's a lot to ask."
"No, no. You got plenty to deal with. Better it comes from me - you know how they get with emotional stuff." she said. Then, "Hey, Donnie?"
"Yeah?
"She was my friend, too. I really thought...I mean, I hoped..."
"Yeah. I know."
He hung up. He couldn't take any more. He knew Sam would understand.
* * * * *
Chérie was so gracious he nearly started crying again, even though he'd just spent ten minutes in his car managing to stop.
"Donald, it's good to see you," she said, kissing both his cheeks.
"You, too. Chérie, I'm so - "
Her mouth tightened - so like Jess, he thought - and she shook her head. "Non. From others, yes, but not from you. There's not a thing to be sorry for. It's we who are sorry for you."
He couldn't think of a thing to say, so he stared at the toe of his shoe and nodded.
"I know how you policemen need to stay detaché," Chérie went on, "So I know that this might be a hard request. But will you stay in touch? You have become very dear to us, you know."
"I will," he promised, though not at all sure if he could follow through. He cleared his throat. "My mother said to tell you she's thinking of you. Actually, she wanted to know if you’d like her to ask for a Mass said for Jess. She's going to call later on, when things have..."
Chérie nodded, her eyes glimmering. "Je comprends. Thank you, Donald. Cliff is in the living room. Will you go see him? I'm afraid Richard was called away - he'll be here in a half hour, and the other boys not until this evening."
Which was a rather skillful way of letting him know to make an early escape if he so chose, he realized. No question where Jess learned subtlety.
"Thanks."
He kissed her cheek, and went in search of Cliff.
He'd honestly thought that the next time he spoke with Cliff, it would be to do him the old-fashioned courtesy of letting him know he wanted to marry his daughter. Flack didn't think anyone would be surprised, even if they hadn't even been together a year. There would have been some serious heckling about her pregnancy, once the news came out, but nothing but genuine happiness for them at the heart of it.
He'd never tell them. It would only cause them needless pain.
Cliff was hard at work pushing reality away with finger sandwiches and a regular shots of bourbon, for which Flack couldn’t blame him in the least. Smiling and nodding pleasantly to the twenty or so guests who were currently in the living room, managed a genuine smile when he saw Flack.
"Thank God," he said quietly, gripping Flack's hand. "Someone who gets it."
Flack found himself almost wanting to laugh. He understood.
"Stay and talk to me for a bit, would you? Or just pretend." Cliff went on, eyeing the crowd.
"Oh, I think can put a few sentences together for you," Flack returned. "Looks like a good spread out there."
"Yeah. The church ladies show their love with food. And the neighbors."
"That’s a lot of love," Flack said softly. Cliff nodded.
Flack realized that the hardest part of his errand was upon him. He reached into his pocket and pulled out Jess' NYPD badge, and stared down at it for a moment. How many nights had it sat next to his, on one of their nightstands? Not nearly enough. Then there was the time they'd swapped without knowing it...Lindsay was the only one who noticed, and she'd never let him forget it...
He passed it to Cliff. It had been his once. He should never have had to take it back.
Cliff rubbed his thumb over the bright metal, and began talking.
"It was mine, you know. And my father's before that."
"Yes, I know. Wanted you to have it back."
Clif cleared his throat gruffly and nodded. He reached behind him, and picked up a framed photograph off the sideboard. "Four sons, and none of them wanted any part of bein' a cop. But Jess? It was in her blood. I wanted her to be a Girl Scout. She wound up a shortstop."
Flack had seen the photo on a previous visit, of a determined ten-year-old Jess at bat. It was a window on her life that had made him smile, but now, he felt the impact of the realization that there wouldn't ever be any children for them, no catch practice at dusk, no bedtime stories. No memories to look back on. Just possibilities turned to impossibilities.
His arms remembered the small weight of Lucy Messer, and the feeling of being compelled to watch over something so utterly helpless and tiny. He took a deep breath against rising tears. He couldn't tell Danny and Lindsay, either. Many years down the road, maybe, but not now.
"There was nothing I could've done to keep her from becomin' a cop."
"I wish I knew what to say..."
"You can tell me that she didn't die protecting that scumbag," Cliff ground out. "A murderer."
"No, I can't. But I can tell you that she did the job the best she could. No matter what the assignment. That's who she was."
"She was too damn brave for her own good."
"What I hear, she took after her old man," Flack offered.
Cliff shook his hand, hard, and managed a half-smile that Flack correctly interpreted to mean, You too, son.
Suddenly it was too much. It wasn't so much another oncoming crying jag as emotional claustrophobia. He and Cliff had been wavering between treating each other like fellow cops, and like family. While Cliff might have been okay with letting his guard down in his own house, Flack knew that he'd quickly break down in front of the whole assembly, if that happened.
"I got work to do," he said, somewhat lamely. He was about to turn away, but Cliff's voice stopped him, softer and more direct than before.
"Don. Jess always had a smile on her face. But the last few months, it was different. It was a smile I've never seen before."
This should've been where I cut in with "And sir, I intend to put that smile on her face every day for the rest of her life," Flack thought. Not anymore. But he had just enough left in him to make a son's vow, of a sort.
"I promise you that I won't stop..."
"I know." Cliff nodded. "I know."
He gave the older man a tight hug, trying to impart some sort of strength, or at least resilience. "You take care of yourself, all right?"
Flack left before Rick and his girlfriend Aislin turned up. They'd spoken by phone, and they'd meet later. Not now. Ash was an EMT, like Rick, and while the two of them spent less time in the line of fire than cops, their shifts were not without high drama, and they knew what it was like to be lovers and partners. They'd have an idea what he was going through, and he'd prefer to see them in the comfort of his own home, when he could disburden himself and talk about Jess without all of them trying to remain stoic. It would do them good.
He sat in his car, trying to take deep breaths and fend off more tears before heading into traffic. There were moments he felt it was ridiculous of him to cry so much. It wasn't going to bring her back, and only gave him a sick headache. Always in the next moment, he'd think that Jess, and the few months they'd shared, were worth shedding every tear in his body.
I should have been there. If I'd only been there...
Even though I wouldn't have been wearing a vest, either.
I'll work myself into the ground if I have to, Jess, to hunt these animals down. It's all I have left to do for you, and I wouldn't give it any less.
Even though it wouldn't bring her back.
Even if it meant shutting down some massive conspiracy, even if it meant accolades and mayoral thanks for everyone, it wouldn't bring Jess back.
Or their baby.
It was just senseless. There couldn't be a reason Jess and the baby were taken. There couldn't. What God would be so cruel?
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He came home after killing Simon Cade, and locked the apartment door behind him.
He locked the bathroom door, too, and stripped off his clothes with distaste, even though there was no trace on them. He'd already turned over the shirt with the residue-spattered cuff to Mac, as per protocol.
He moved quickly, his movements automatic, trying not to think. Turned on the shower and stripped off his clothes, leaving them on the floor. Stepped under the hot spray, rubbing his hands over his face and arms. He thought of Jess standing there with him, laughing, the horrors of another New York crime scene sluicing off them and away down the drain, washing each other clean.
He turned the hot water off with a jerk of his wrist, and cursed aloud at the painful shock of cold on his skin. He grit his teeth for as long as he could stand it, and gave up on the shower idea.
Jess was everywhere.
Cade was everywhere.
He pulled on fresh clothes, and headed into the living room. His cellphone was blinking with a message. He thought wildly that he was being called back by IA, and his heart pounded, but when he checked the number, it was Sam's. He sat down on the couch to listen.
"Hey, Donnie," Sam's voice came clearly through the speaker. "You did something for me once, and I never really got a chance to say thanks. So here...
There was a pause, and then he heard the voices of Peter Gabriel and Kate Bush.
"In this proud land, we grew up strong
We were wanted, all along
I was taught to fight, taught to win,
I never thought I could fail...
Rest your head, you worry too much.
It's gonna be all right.
When times get rough, you can fall back on us
Don't give up...please don't give up..."
Oh, Sammie, don't be proud of me. he thought. Not after what I did.
He buried his face in his hands and wept.
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"Everyone raise your glass, please."
This wasn't a bloodletting, or even a wake, thought it might well devolve into one. Each of them would find their own way through shock and grief, later on. This was a moment of honour. This was Stella, gathering their family around him, leading the way forward, with grace and dignity and resolve.
He knew gratitude, for Stella, for all of them. He knew love for them. But his feelings were scattershot among memories and the ache of the present.
He felt like this must be a waking nightmare, and any moment now, he'd hear Jess calling to him to wake up.
He felt like he was already marked as a killer, a vigilante, outside the laws of man and of God.
He felt like he was watching himself going mad, only he was as sane and clear-headed as he'd ever been in his life.
He only heard one out of every few words that were spoken at the bar, as if he was on the end of a faulty phone line. He needed Jess so badly he didn't know if he could stand up on his own legs. He needed to tell her he killed the man who killed her. He needed her to scream at him that it was the stupidest thing he'd ever done, and not to use her or their child as an excuse. He needed her to forgive him.
He needed to go home to her, and take her in his arms, and say, "Babe, you would not believe the day I've had," and she'd take him to bed to curl up with her head on his shoulder, and they'd talk until they were talked out. He needed the warmth of her skin grounding him, and the fierce, protective clutch of her embrace as she stood guard between him and his nightmares. As he did for her when she needed.
And never would again.
Never again.
Never again.
A car drove by, slowing as it passed the bar. Mac glanced towards it as if by instinct. And then with no warning, the world shattered.
Bullets sprayed into the quiet bar. Everywhere was exploding glass lancing through the air, and screaming patrons, the sound rising above the gunfire. All anyone could do was hit the ground, and it went on and on and on...
It was as if God had heard him wondering what it was like when Jess went down.
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Les traductions / Aistriúcháin:
"Mon nounours"
- My teddy bear / cuddle-bug
"Papa, il sera'n colère j'étais dans un autre combat..."
- Dad's gonna be pissed I got into another fight..."
"Mais moi, je suis ici...Je peux te voir. Je peux t'entendre. La, c'est moi?"
- But I'm here. I can see you. I can hear you. There, is that me?
"Et moi, je quel suis?"
- And what am I?
"Ca ne fait rien. Mais tu, tu as fait beaucoup."
- That doesn't matter. But you, you mattered.
"Faisais-je?"
- Did I?
"Oui."
- Yes.
"...detache..."
- Detached, disengaged
"Je comprends"
- I understand.
Now go and read the Wrinkle-in-Time version, and take a deep breath...