Bleeding Out

by Baxter Clare

  Kennedy bobbed her head amiably. “Yeah. I figured as much. Did you go to a shrink after you got shot?”

  Frank closed her eyes and let her head fall back against the chair.

  “Yep.”

  “Did it help or was it just bullshit?”

  “Let’s just say I think you’ll be a better patient than I was.”

  “That shrink didn’t get squat from you, did he?”

  Frank graced the ceiling with a faint smile.

  “You’re gonna have to go in this time too, aren’t you?”

  Frank sighed, arching her back as she got out of the chair. “I thought you were supposed to be sleeping.”

  “You can go home anytime,” Kennedy grinned. “You don’t have to stay here.”

  “I know.”

  “So why don’t you go home, get some sleep.”

  Frank looked down at Kennedy. Around the jaundiced edge of the betadine, her color was good. Still pale, but not the awful chalk-white of serious shock. Her eyes were bright again. Frank looked away. She was young and strong. She’d be alright physically; it was the emotional fallout that worried Frank. But so far Kennedy was coping well, better than Frank ever had.

  She felt an involuntary pang of tenderness. In order to get out of Johnston’s apartment alive, they’d had to put aside their mutual antagonism and forge a fragile alliance. They came through it together, and Frank wasn’t about to abandon Kennedy now.

  “Look. I thought the deal was you sleep, I go. The sooner you go to sleep, the sooner I can get out of here.”

  Kennedy surprised Frank by closing her eyes and wiggling deeper into the sheets.

  “I’m Audi,” she murmured, and indeed she was gone, sleep quickly claiming her. But Frank stayed by the bed. A lock of hair, the color of sunflowers, was taut under Kennedy’s pillow. Frank freed it, surprised how silky it was. She held it for a moment, then let go, an odd expression on her face. Quietly she backed away. Instead of going home, however, she took off her shoes and stretched out on the empty bed.

  A few weeks after his father’s funeral the boy picked up a whore. He was nervous. His father had always handled the business, but she seemed willing enough. He asked if it would be okay to do it in the car. When he told her what he wanted she balked and jacked the price up fifty dollars. He didn’t have that much money.

  “Then I guess you gonna have to settle for what you can get,” she said, starting to blow him.

  He couldn’t do it.

  A week later he tried with another whore and a hundred dollars in his pocket. When she got on her hands and knees, he flew again. But he missed his dad.

  22

  The next few days brought endless visits from deputy chiefs and commanders. OIS came and went with their interminable questions and forms, as did Foubarelle and Luchowski and the suits from IAD. Timothy Johnston’s family was calling for an investigation, and Internal Affairs was cross-examining all the detectives involved. At least Frank had managed to avoid the RHD dicks, but they finally cornered her at the hospital. She was less than cooperative. The two detectives left in a snit after a tense fifteen minutes, threatening to nail her with hampering an investigation.

  “I reckon that’s the least of your worries right now,” Kennedy observed.

  Frank agreed. “Pretty low on my list of priorities.”

  Having just come from home and a decent night’s sleep, Frank asked how Kennedy was doing.

  “Never better. Ready to git on my board and hit the surf.”

  “Not on my watch,” Frank warned.

  Kennedy grinned. “What are you, my mother?”

  Frank nodded. “As long as you’re in here.”

  “Well, that ain’t gonna be for much longer. Doc said he’ll probably release me tomorrow.”

  Frank raised an eyebrow. “Really?”

  “Yep. Then it’s me an’ the long-board.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Oh, yeah? Who’s gonna stop me?” Kennedy challenged.

  Frank leaned on her knuckles at the foot of Kennedy’s bed. She couldn’t have imagined just a few days ago that the younger woman’s cheekiness would have ever pleased her. But then there was a lot she couldn’t have imagined a few days ago.

  Except for brief trips home and to headquarters, Frank had spent most of her time with Kennedy. They talked a lot, alternating between friendly sparring and painfully serious discussion. Kennedy was able to switch gears rapidly and easily, often leaving Frank in the dust; one minute Kennedy made her laugh and the next she felt like she’d been skewered through the heart. Keeping up with her was demanding, but Frank was game. She considered it part of her reparations to Kennedy. Though in truth, she actually enjoyed the young woman’s company.

  “Who’s going to stop you?” Frank repeated, considering what she was about to say, “I’m going to stop you. You’re coming home with me.”

  For once, Kennedy was the one floundering, and she said, “I don’t get it.”

  “Simple. You’re going to stay with me until you’re okay.”

  “Well, I’ll be dipped in shit and covered with peanuts,” Kennedy murmured.

  “Hmm. Nice,” Frank said sarcastically, flipping through a surfing magazine.

  “I don’t know if this is such a good idea.”

  “Why’s that?”

  Kennedy lifted her good shoulder, glancing out the window for an answer.

  “I don’t need a babysitter. I can take care of myself.”

  Frank was getting used to Kennedy’s independent streak and agreed, “Yeah, you can. But it’d be better if you took it real easy for a while. So I’m going to take you home and be your slave-girl. Can’t ditch your slave-girl just like that,” Frank said, snapping her fingers.

  Kennedy just plucked at her sheet. Frank reluctantly asked, “What’s the matter, sport?”

  “I feel like such a geek, like I’m a fuckin’ albatross around everyone’s neck.”

  “You’re not an albatross,” Frank replied awkwardly, touched by Kennedy’s candor. She hesitated, then said, “I want you to come home with me. It’s the very least I can do for you.”

  “You don’t have to do anything for me, Frank. I remember you apologized right after I came out of the anesthesia, and at the time I remember thinking, That’s so stupid. If anybody should have been apologizing it was me, for having been such an idiot in the first place.”

  Frank sat on the edge of the bed.

  “Hey. We’ve been over this. I was the first one in, remember? I should have seen him. I didn’t. You’re not to blame here, Kennedy. Now we’ve all got our 20/20 hindsight, and we’d all do it differently, but we didn’t know then. There’s nobody to blame,” Frank lied, convinced she could have prevented the whole affair.

  “So we’re going to baby you for the next couple of days, get you back to 100 percent, and then throw you out in the trenches again. Get you on that surfboard. Okay?”

  ‘“Kay.”

  Kennedy smiled a little, then added, “But you know you don’t have to do this.”

  “Jesus Christ!” Frank blew out in a long breath.

  “Frank, really I—”

  “I don’t want to hear it.” Frank stood, holding up her hands. “I’m going downtown. I’ve got to see the shrink in twenty minutes. He’s gonna be a picnic after you, sport.”

  As Frank reached the door Kennedy called, “Frank?”

  “What?”

  “Thanks.”

  Her back to Kennedy, Frank smiled.

  “No sweat.”

  Kennedy had been right. The psychologist Frank was required to see after she’d been shot got nothing from her. Later on, when Mag was killed, she hadn’t been forced to see anybody. Instead, Frank had spent a lot of nights with the Jantzens. Long after Tracey had gone to bed, Noah and Frank would sit out on the patio, watching the barbecue coals die. He tried to get her to talk, but they shared more silence than words. He’d nurse a couple drinks, Frank a bottle, and eventuall
y she’d pass out in the lounge chair.

  “Hello, Frank.”

  Richard Clay stepped out of his office, interrupting Frank’s thoughts. He held out his hand.

  “It’s good to see you again. I wish it were under more auspicious circumstances.”

  “Hello, Dick,” she said smoothly, returning the shake. She perched on the edge of a chair in front of Clay’s desk while he took the one beside it. Frank recognized the move, she did it all the time. Get close to your suspect. Make her nervous. Invade her body space.

  “How’s your serial case coming along?”

  “Not mine anymore. RHD’s got it.”

  “Hmm. Is that a relief or a disappointment?”

  Frank hated this touchy-feely shit, hated it like the plague, but she knew she had to go along with it for Clay to sign off on her ROD. She felt his quiet appraisal and wondered vaguely if he saw what she wanted him to or something else. Frank was a detective. She was a master at projecting whatever attitude was needed. Today called for casual yet earnest cooperation.

  “Guess I’d have to say disappointing.”

  “And how does being relieved of duty feel?”

  “It’s probably good for me. I haven’t taken a vacation in years.”

  Clay was peering at her over his bifocals.

  “Does it feel good?”

  Frank considered for a moment, wondering how high Clay’s bullshit barometer went. As she recalled, it was pretty sensitive.

  “I’ve felt better.”

  He smiled softly. “I’ll take it that’s a ‘no’.”

  She shrugged.

  “Tell me about the shooting.”

  Clay remained silent while Frank laid out the mechanics of the story. When she’d finished he asked, “How did you feel going in?”

  “The usual. Excited. Tense. Pumped.”

  “And in the hallway right before Detective Kennedy was seized?”

  “Same. Probably a little more concerned. We didn’t know where this guy was, but he was in there somewhere with us.”

  “Were you afraid?”

  “Didn’t have time to be. I suppose I was. It’s hard to remember,” she lied.

  “How about when you were in the bathroom and heard the suspect screaming at your detectives? How did that make you feel?”

  Frank remembered the lurch her stomach had made and the nauseating panic, then the icy calmness that took over, the complete detachment.

  “I felt like a machine. My vision and hearing were acute. I could smell the towels on the door. They’d been damp for a couple of days. There were black and brown cracks in the linoleum. It was mustard colored, had some sort of a square geometric pattern. I was on autopilot.”

  “Were you scared then?”

  “I guess. I don’t remember.”

  “When you shot the suspect, what was going through your head?”

  “Not being seen. Being 100 percent accurate. No room for error.”

  “It must have been tremendous pressure.”

  Frank shrugged. “I suppose. You don’t think about it at the time, though.”

  Frank was trying to lead the conversation and hoped he’d ask when did she think about it. But Clay had been doing his job for a long time. He bowled her over by asking, “Tell me how you felt kneeling over Detective Kennedy while she was dying on you.”

  Frank wasn’t expecting that one. Clay’s vivid description forced the scene into her mind, followed by Mag on the dirty liquor store floor. Frank sat perfectly still. Her eyes narrowed and focused intently on Clay’s, warning him not to continue. Clay steadily maintained his gaze. They both knew he’d set the hook. Now she’d either fight it or give into it. He was allowing her time to figure it out. When she spoke it was almost in a whisper, as if sound might shatter her self-control.

  “I know I’m supposed to talk about this. I have no intention of doing so. I respect your time and I don’t want to waste it.”

  Clay took off his glasses and thoughtfully polished them with a handkerchief. He took some time doing it, carefully rubbing each lens, redoing them, examining them for smudges. He refolded the handkerchief and patted it back into his pocket. Frank knew he was buying time. Slowly, using both hands, he slid the glasses back onto his nose, adjusting then until he’d found just the right spot. Adopting Frank’s casual posture, he leaned halfway out of the chair and rested his forearms on his thighs, fingers clasped between his knees.

  “You know I have to sign an evaluation saying you’re capable of performing your job.”

  “I am capable of performing my job.”

  She spoke evenly, very quietly.

  “Are you sure about that?”

  “Very.”

  Silence stretched between them until Clay said, “Unfortunately, I think you’re right. I think you’ll be just fine on the street. To be honest, it’s what you do when you’re not working that worries me.”

  Frank knew what he meant, that sometimes work was the only thing a cop had and when the job was gone there was nothing left but bullets or bottles. She offered him nothing.

  “Your consult form says you’re single.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Do you date?”

  “Are you asking me out?”

  Clay smiled. “Do you?”

  “No.”

  “How come?”

  “Too busy.”

  “Would you like to date?”

  Frank and Clay were head to head, eyes locked. She hesitated before answering no, and he immediately asked her why.

  “Too busy,” she repeated with a shrug.

  “Doing what?” he pressed.

  Frank sighed, conveying a supreme indifference to the barrage of questions.

  “I don’t know. Working, I guess.”

  “What do you do when you’re not working?

  “Sleep. Eat. Exercise. Read the paper, watch the news, football.”

  Clay sat back, asking what team she liked.

  “Chiefs look good. And just to show I have a heart, Warren Moon makes the Seahawks a sentimental favorite.”

  Clay smiled again, like an indulgent grandfather. “You wrote down that you drink moderately. What’s moderate to you?”

  “I don’t know. Depends on the day.”

  “Do you drink more on bad days?”

  “I suppose.”

  Frank sat back, stretching her legs all the way out, crossing arms and ankles.

  “What’s an average day’s consumption?”

  “Two, three beers. Scotch sometimes, maybe wine if I have dinner.”

  “Do you ever have nightmares?”

  Frank’s nonchalant expression wavered for an instant, but then she said stoically, “It’s a package deal. You get a pension, medical, and nightmares for the rest of your life.”

  “Are they bad ones?”

  “Is any nightmare good?”

  Clay smiled at his own question, neatly laying the trap. “Do you ever wake up crying?”

  The flexed jaw muscle was Clay’s answer. He shifted his attention to a thread on his slacks. “I don’t suppose you’d tell me what they’re about.”

  He looked back up and searched her cobalt eyes, waiting. Finally he sighed loudly. “Lieutenant, you seem like an intelligent person. I have to admit, I admire your investigative skills and I’ve enjoyed it the few times we’ve worked together, but frankly, I sure as shit wouldn’t want to be living in your shoes right now. I’d say you’re on the edge of a hard place and I’m offering you a hand— no strings attached. I can help you, Frank, but only if you’ll let me.”

  Their eyes dueled while Frank considered Clay’s offer. She respected him, he seemed like a straight-up guy, but she just couldn’t tell him everything. What she’d endured lately with Kennedy and Noah was bad enough. She wasn’t willing to go any further. Not for a stranger. Clay finally realized that.

  “Fine. You’re right. You are wasting my time.”

  He stood, reseating himself behind the desk
. “You know my number and you know where I am.”

  Frank hadn’t expected the abrupt dismissal. She got up and walked to the door, then paused, her hand on the knob. Clay had opened a folder and was sorting through its contents.

  “Are you going to sign off on me?” she asked.

  Without lifting his head, Clay answered, “Of course I am. Your job’s all you have in the world.”

  Sometimes he’d go out and find a whore before he had to be at work, or sometimes he’d cruise on the way home. He couldn’t do it very often. It cost a lot for what he wanted, and his mother always noticed the missing money. After a while he gave it up and just watched the whores, thinking about what he’d like to do to them. He’d sit alone in the car, wishing his dad were with him, missing him.

  23

  Frank tried to help Kennedy into the Honda after she was wheeled out of the hospital. Kennedy slapped her hand away, complaining she hadn’t forgotten how to walk.

  “Geez Louise,” she drawled, “the way ya’ll are fussin’ over me you’d think I was a double amputee.”

  Watching Kennedy get in on her own, Frank commented, “Too bad Tunnel cut your carotid and not your vocal cords.”

  They went by Kennedy’s apartment to pick up some clothes. Frank looked around while the younger woman packed. The place obviously came furnished in used Sears Roebuck. The carpet was the standard chocolate shag, and though worn, it was clean. The kitchen was cramped but tidy. There were some dishes in the sink, and Frank quickly washed them.

  Kennedy emerged from the bedroom with a suitcase. When Frank offered to help, Kennedy waved her away. Frank waited against the door, surveying the spartan surroundings. No plants, no books, no pictures. A stereo system and lots of CDs dominated the room, as did a pile of sports equipment. Two surfboards and a mountain bike were propped against the wall. A neat pile of newspapers sat on one end of the couch.

  “Okay. That’s it.”

  Frank tugged at the suitcase, reminding Kennedy she was supposed to be taking it easy.

  “Oh yeah, it’s really heavy.”

  “That’s not the point. Easy is easy. You’re lucky I let you walk up here.”

  “Oh, you’re so butch,” Kennedy teased.

  Frank headed down the balcony steps while Kennedy locked up. By the time Kennedy got to the car, she was pale.