by Adam Carter
Then all was still.
Thompson stared in silent shock, the sight of Baronaire wounded, alone, etched forever into her mind. She could not move, could not think, could not act. She did not know how long she stood there, did not know what to do. She could hear sirens in the background and shook her head forcefully, snapping herself back to the present. The hoods were running now, what remained of them, and she watched as a fire engine pulled up, two police cars flanking it, certainly more on the way. The ruined building was raging with fire now, and the firefighters concentrated their efforts upon the inferno. Thompson’s eyes remained firmly focused upon the position at which Baronaire had fallen. The flames were intense there, and it was one of the first areas upon which the firefighters concentrated.
She knew there was no chance they would be pulling him out alive.
Thompson staggered from the scene, moving as quickly as she could, directionless. She only knew she had to get away from the river, away from anything which could connect her division to what had happened here. There was nothing she could do for Baronaire now. He had saved her life, and the best she could hope for now was that the fire had incinerated his body so as to leave nothing for the police to find.
It did not matter that she was the police.
It was all such a mess.
Thompson turned her eyes skyward, to where the Moon shone down with its single malevolent eye, its joyful face laughing at her failure. She felt tears stinging her eyes, a tight knot in her throat. She hadn’t researched her mission, had charged in like some gung-ho rookie, and a good man had died.
And now, the following evening, after filing her report, she sat at her favourite bar; and all she could tell the bartender about the incident, all she was allowed to officially say about the entire story, she had already said.
“I screwed up. I screwed up royally and now a good man’s dead.”
This was the worst part of her job. The part where, no matter what you did, in the end you were always alone.
CHAPTER TWO
It took her a while, but Detective Sharon Foster visibly relaxed when she recognised the woman slumped in the corner of the bar. Detective Thompson was tall, with striking dark hair which lately was growing beyond her shoulders. She was dressed in her usual attire: utilitarian dark jeans and a black leather jacket. She never wore earrings or any other jewellery: everything about Detective Thompson was for a purpose. Foster knew very little about her, only that she valued the company of vehicles more than people. She guessed Thompson had grown up watching the A-Team or something and thought this job allowed her to live out her military fantasies. The analogy wasn’t entirely correct, but Foster could not think of a better one.
The officers at Operation WetFish formed a legal yet unorthodox unit. They corrected the mistakes of the courts and acted to remove guilty parties without the problems of a trial. Sometimes they would fabricate evidence to give the courts a helping hand; other times they would simply take out the bad guys permanently and frame someone else in the process. That was what Thompson had been doing last night. It was all over the papers this morning, and clearly it had not gone down quite as Thompson had expected.
Detective Foster was not as ambitious as Thompson. Her plans were always subtler. Where Thompson would gladly go joyriding on a speedboat, Foster would not have the first clue as to how to even operate one. Foster concentrated more upon the law and the courts. She could move evidence easily, planting it to let other people do her work for her. Foster would not have called herself insidious, since she was such a happy person generally, but that was precisely what she was. Foster was a living example of why everyone accused the police of planting evidence; but then that was what their team did.
She could not imagine ever doing anything as daring as that which Thompson had done last night.
Foster approached Thompson slowly; now that she had found her she wasn’t quite sure what to say. Foster and Thompson could not have been more different, either in strategy or physicality. Foster was short, with long red hair, and was far readier with a smile than was Thompson. She also wasn’t as physically fit; where Thompson’s body was a toned pillar of perfection, Foster just loved ice cream too much to worry about something like that. Ice cream was the one thing which got Foster through life, actually. Her results were always that her assignments were sent down by the courts, now that she had provided new evidence; the very thought of killing someone, like Thompson had, did not sit well with Foster. She knew Thompson thought very little of her because of this lack of backbone. But it wasn’t the cowardice Thompson seemed to think. Foster just had a conscience most officers at WetFish sorely seemed to lack.
“Thompson.”
Thompson turned to her briefly, but there was barely recognition, let alone greeting, to her eyes. The detective had likely been here for several hours. She was slouched at the bar, huddled over a glass of iced whiskey. Foster hesitated. She had never seen Thompson drunk and what with everything that had happened wondered whether she would get violent.
Foster took the seat beside her at the bar. It wasn’t especially crowded tonight, but it was quiet and that was the main thing. “I need to talk to you.”
Thompson did not look up. “Buy me a drink and I might talk back.”
“I think you’ve had enough.”
Thompson laughed, although the sound was dry. “So long as I can still remember what I did, I haven’t had enough.”
“Jen.” Foster realised she did not know what to say to comfort this woman, did not know how to act. She would have offered her a shoulder to cry on, but Thompson did not cry; she would have given her advice, but Thompson didn’t listen to anyone. Hell, she would have hugged the woman if she thought it might do any good. “Jen, this isn’t the answer.”
“Why? What was the question?”
Thompson was looking at her now and Foster could see a dejected resignation. She was overpowered with the smell of whiskey, but was surprised to see that there was reason to the woman’s eyes. No matter how long Thompson had been sitting at this bar, she wasn’t drunk.
“Takes a lot,” Thompson said, knowing what the other woman was thinking. She raised a finger to call the bartender over and turned the finger into a pendulum motion to indicate she wanted two more drinks.
Foster watched the bartender hesitate. There was concern to her eyes, and Foster knew Thompson really was lost if she had made such an impression on the staff here. The drinks were poured regardless, and Foster caught the bartender’s sheepish glance. She was silently asking Foster what the hell either of them was supposed to do. Foster wished she had an answer someone would have liked.
“I heard Sanders and Jeremiah talking,” Foster said when the two officers were alone once more. “I eavesdropped.”
“Bully for you,” Thompson drawled, half listening.
“Jeremiah’s got some sort of lead. I’m going to hijack his assignment.”
“Whatever.”
“Thought you might want to come?”
Thompson drained her glass and held the empty before her eyes, staring into the kaleidoscope of ice through the faceted glass. “Think I might just head home, Sharon. I’m not on suspension, although I can’t see why. Still, got a lot of sleep to be catching up on.”
Foster blinked. “I, uh, thought you’d want to come?”
“And why would I want to do that?”
Foster hesitated, glanced about her, then back to Thompson. “Didn’t you get the memo?”
“Probably. What’d it say?”
“Baronaire’s body wasn’t recovered from the docks. They’re identifying all the people who died down there, but it looks like he may have survived.”
“No one could have survived that fire, Sharon. Besides, where is he then?”
“That’s what Jeremiah’s going to find out. Sanders thinks they may have taken him. Thinks they might be torturing him for information.”
“Charles Baronaire is dead, Sharon,” Thompson told
her as she got to her feet. “Just leave it alone.”
Foster could have said something, but there was nothing which could have stopped Thompson storming out of the bar so she didn’t bother making an attempt. Foster’s entire job was about not drawing attention to herself, and it never occurred to her to even try. Jen Thompson was an angry young woman, and it wasn’t as though Foster was her friend; they didn’t even like one another. But they were colleagues, and that had to count for something.
“You’re not going after her?” the bartender asked in an almost accusatory tone.
Foster looked her up and down derisively. “Do I tell you how to do your job?” With a shake of her head she made to follow Thompson, although the bartender cleared her throat. “What?” Foster barked.
“Just that Jen ran up quite a tab tonight, honey. You going to pay for it or should I call the police?”
Foster did not much like the smirk which encompassed the other woman’s face. It told her the woman knew full well she was already talking to the police. Not wanting to draw attention, Foster had no choice but to grudgingly pay the bill herself.
*
Thompson left Foster in the bar. It was raining when she got outside; a pounding steady drum as though the heavens themselves were angry at her failure. She swore loudly at the storm, her cursing concealed by a sudden roll of thunder. Shaking her sopping hair, Thompson mounted her bike and strapped on her helmet. It probably wasn’t a good idea to ride the bike home after how much she had had to drink, but she’d fouled up enough already, she didn’t think she could make things much worse.
All the way home she could not get out of her head what Foster had said. Baronaire had been at the docks because of her: he had died because of her. But if he was alive ... if he was alive and she had just left him there ...
But no. The flames had been furious, there was no way Baronaire could have survived. Foster was trying to ease her conscience, giving her work to focus on so she didn’t feel so guilty about what she’d done.
Thompson arrived home ten minutes later and trudged up the stairs to her flat. One day the lifts would be working, but even if they were she felt she had to take the stairs. It wasn’t exercise or penance; it was simply because she wanted to put off facing the empty flat again.
The rhythmic blast of her neighbour’s television alerted her to the fact she was approaching her own door, and she fumbled with the key, the rain pelting her back. The door opened into her home: the cold, emptiness she tried to avoid as much as humanly possible. Dropping her helmet on the floor, Thompson stripped out of her wet things and grabbed a bath towel. She set her army knife carefully on the table; it was perhaps her only prized possession and seldom left her side. Thompson’s flat was spacious, but empty. She had furniture and a television, and her bathroom was pretty well stocked. But there was nothing in her flat to suggest that anyone lived here. It was like a holiday home rented out by the cheapest, nastiest travel agent ever. Her cupboards were filled with health food, her weights and other training equipment lay in one corner of her living room; but there was no decoration to Thompson’s flat. No paintings, no posters, nothing.
She sank into the settee, the sounds of next door’s television shuddering through her room as ever. Thompson’s life had never been bad, but she had never done the things she had always intended. She had been raised in an army barracks; with her father in the service, she had moved from school to school so often, and her real education had come from her father’s soldiers. When she was very young she used to tell them of her dreams and they would smile and say encouraging things. As she grew older she realised they were just being kind. When she became a teenager she realised they were also hiding other things. The way they spoke, for instance, was different if she was not around. There would be no dirty jokes made around her, and very little swearing. They knew of course who her father was and didn’t want her going back to him repeating anything they had said.
As she hit puberty she began to realise this was what they were doing and asked them to stop. She wanted to know how they acted when she wasn’t around and told them in no uncertain terms that she wasn’t a kid any more. They hadn’t known how to react, had laughed it off, but she persisted and gathered some dirty jokes from school: enough to make the soldiers understand she knew what she was talking about.
Finally they decided if she really wanted to know what they were like, it was her decision. And one night, when her father was away, they taught her precisely what happened when she wasn’t around.
There were jokes and stories, far more graphic than anything young Jennifer Thompson could ever learn in school. It was the counter-jokes and counter-comments that impressed her; that each man could come back with something so quickly, so snappily. There was drink and poker and more drink. They taught her the basics of poker, even allowed her a pint, although none of them were fool enough to get her completely off her face for when her father got back. It was enough to loosen her up though, to make her understand what a soldier’s life was, and she remembered grinning from ear to ear that they were at last treating her like an adult. Like one of them.
As the night wore on some girls came around. Thompson remembered that part vividly. The soldiers had forgotten they had organised the prostitutes; had done so the instant they learned the boss would be away, but had not counted on Thompson being there the whole night. She remembered one of the soldiers trying to shoo them away, several of the men’s faces falling as they realised they wouldn’t be having any real fun that night. Corporal Daniel
Stewart, always Thompson’s favourite soldier, took the girls to one side and calmly explained to them they wouldn’t be needing their services after all. Thompson caught Dan casting several nods in her direction, trying not to let Thompson know she was the cause of the change of plans. The prostitutes seemed annoyed, one of them placing her hands upon her hips and demanding in a very loud voice that they be paid anyway. Dan was more embarrassed in that moment than Thompson had ever seen him before, and as he tried to take them out of earshot to explain things properly, Thompson looked about the soldiers and knew the mood had soured. She sat there with her half-finished pint, knowing it was all her fault.
“Dan?” she called. He waved her away as he spoke with the girls. She rose and walked a little way over to him. “Dan, it’s all right, I don’t mind. I mean, if you’re uncomfortable with me being here I can go home.”
“Sweetie,” he said, turning to her then and placing his hands upon her shoulders. “It’s just there are some things soldiers do which ... Well, if your father found out about tonight we’ll all be running circles in the rain for the rest of the year; but we carry on with this and the old man’d skin us alive.”
Thompson placed her hands upon her hips in mimicry of the prostitute. “I’m fifteen years old, Dan. I’m not a kid any more. And that brunette at the back is kinda hot.”
Dan did not quite know what to say. He looked to his fellows, who all averted their eyes. No one wanted to make the decision, so he looked back to Thompson. “What do you mean, hot?” he asked in a small voice.
“I mean,” she whispered in a voice which carried well in the silence, “if I was actually an adult, I’d shotgun her for myself.”
He seemed taken aback. “You’re interested in girls?”
“Aren’t all soldiers?”
“Does your father know?”
She waved her hands expansively. “Does he know about any of this?”
Dan had stared at her for several moments; then his face broke into a broad grin. “All right, guys,” he said loudly. “We use the rooms next door, four at a time. Wouldn’t want Jen getting lonely in here.”
Thompson remembered the resounding cheer that went up and the soldiers split themselves into groups. Dan waved for her to come join him and Thompson did so, relief flooding through her that she hadn’t ruined their night.
“You know,” he said, grinning broadly, “I knew there was a reason I liked you, Jen.”
“Because I’m into girls?”
“No. No, because you know what it means to be a team player. You could’ve let the side down tonight. You could’ve made a lot of men very unhappy. But you didn’t. You bucked up and you pulled through for your teammates. They’re going to remember that, Jen. Hell, I’m sure going to remember it.”
“Will you remember it when I turn sixteen?”
Dan shook his head, laughing. “Your father really is gonna kill me one of these days.”
Jen lay upon the settee in her empty flat, a towel draped around her soaking body, staring at the ceiling. Her father didn’t get the chance to kill Corporal Daniel Stewart. When Thompson was seventeen he was shipped out to the Falklands and never came home.
Thompson was in the United Kingdom at the time, there had been nothing she could have done about it, but still she felt the guilt churning within her. Now it was happening again. But this time it had been her fault. She had messed up and Baronaire had rushed in to save her. And now he was dead.
She’d let the side down. No matter what Dan had said about her being a team player, she had let the side down and an officer had died.
She curled up on the settee and cried all night. Eventually the television next door turned off and she was alone with the silence. The silence and her personal ghosts of her own haunted past.
CHAPTER THREE
The kids were running circles around her again, but Kate Danvers knew if she could just get them out the door she would be able to get some work done. Her husband, Geoff, was already putting on his coat and shouting his goodbyes. Kate tossed him the car keys he always managed to forget and leaned across the stair rail to kiss him goodbye. “Have a nice day at the office,” she said.
“Nice day at the office?”