by Radclyffe
Catherine laughed. “You’re going to have to do some translating for me here, Officer. The intricacies of police politics still escape me.”
Amused, Mitchell relaxed enough to lean back in her seat. “Me too, although I’m learning quickly. He put me on this new task force that’s just getting under way, probably figuring it would be nothing but a bureaucratic nightmare and all I would be doing is filing paperwork. Probably all I will be doing is filing paperwork, but the detective in charge is someone who almost anyone in uniform would give an arm or a leg to work with.”
“I think I understand,” Catherine remarked. “So you believe there might be an advantage to this assignment that no one appreciated, is that it?”
“Maybe. First of all, it’s an interesting assignment. Plus, several federal agencies are involved, so there’s a chance it could turn into something really big. If I can contribute something, maybe I can show that I’m not a screw-up.”
Catherine didn’t reply, and her face did not show her consternation. There was probably more than one task force running at any given time. This didn’t necessarily have to be something connected to Rebecca’s assignment. In an attempt to redirect the conversation away from the specifics, she asked, “Do I understand correctly, then, that you’re not displeased with your current work situation?”
“That’s right, not at all. The fastest way for someone to get promoted out of the ranks into the detective division is by assisting a detective with their case. And the detective in charge is Rebecca Frye. You know her, of course, because you were involved with her during the Blake thing. If I can manage to make any kind of positive impression on her, this assignment could actually end up helping my career.”
“Yes. Of course.” Catherine had known that her involvement in the serial murderer/rape case might come up with any of her patients, especially the police officers. It was unrealistic to think that anyone on the city payroll wouldn’t have closely followed that case and its dramatic outcome. She never discussed her personal life with patients, but this situation, unfortunately, had been heavily publicized, and the vivid conclusion covered by the television and print media. Despite her attempts to downplay her involvement, her photograph had been displayed on national television and in local newspapers and magazines. Nevertheless, anticipating that it would come up in session and actually having it presented to her were two different things. Still careful to keep her expression neutral, she continued, “I’m glad this new assignment hasn’t turned out to be a punishment.”
“Are you kidding? As soon as I get a better idea of how she’s going to run the street end of things, I’m hoping I can make myself useful. I’ve been working the Tenderloin for more than half a year. It could be I know some people who might give us some leads. But no matter how it turns out, any uniformed officer would pay money to work with her.”
I don’t doubt it. Except this is supposed to be desk duty for her. But I can’t very well bring that up, can I? Mentally turning that thought aside, Catherine concentrated on her new patient. Mitchell’s entire demeanor had changed from one of quiet resignation to enthusiasm. It was clear how important her work was to her emotional state. And it was time to get back to that.
“Our last session ended before you were able to tell me what happened in the alley that night. We need to go through it, and talk about what happened after, before I can sign off on my evaluation.”
“I know.” Mitchell’s expression became serious as she met Catherine’s eyes. She was ready to get it over with. Perfunctorily, she stated flatly, “There isn’t very much more to tell. I went down the alley—”
“Wait,” Catherine interrupted softly. She didn’t want a recitation; she wanted the remembrances. “Picture it for a minute. It was dark, and you were alone, and your backup hadn’t arrived. There were sounds of a struggle, and you went to investigate, correct?”
Mitchell’s eyes darkened as Catherine’s quiet voice brought her back to the moment that was still as clear in her memory as the instant it had happened. She nodded.
“I had my weapon out. My heart was beating so fast it was like a drum beating in my ears. I pressed my back flat against the brick wall, and I could feel the uneven surface of the stones catching on the back of my shirt as I eased my way down the alley. I didn’t want him to know I was coming until I was close enough to subdue him, because I didn’t know if he had a weapon. It’s impossible to subdue a suspect hand to hand if you’re not within arm’s reach. If he has a gun and you can’t physically reach him, you’re dead.”
She paused as she eased down the alley in her memory. “It was hard not to stumble over bits of trash and broken glass and rocks. I was certain I was announcing my presence with every step I took. The gun barrel was angled up—I was holding it beside my face in a two-handed grip—and I was looking past it toward the shapes that were just shadows moving in the little bit of light that filtered down from the windows high up above me.” She worked to quell a surge of adrenaline, just as she had that night. She couldn’t afford to have her gun hand shake. “As I got closer, I could hear him grunting, and she was…” Mitchell swallowed, trying not to remember the sound of a skull being slammed hard against a stone wall and the soft moan of pain.
“She had been screaming before—shouting, I think—for him to stop. Now she was…whimpering. I was afraid he was going to kill her.”
Without realizing it, she had clutched the arms of the chair, her hands white-knuckled with the force of her grip. “I could see them more clearly now. He was big—linebacker kind of big. He had one hand around her throat and the other under her skirt. Her thighs were bare, pale, ghostly in the moonlight. I saw her face for the first time then. There was blood on her face…”
From across the desk, Catherine could see the sweat bead on the young woman’s forehead and knew that although her eyes were open, she wasn’t seeing anything except those moments replaying as real as if they were happening now. She didn’t have to imagine the feeling. She knew the feeling. “Go on,” she said very gently.
Mitchell jerked slightly at the sound of the voice that seemed to be coming from very far away. “I announced myself…I think I yelled ‘Police! Put your hands up where I can see them.’ God, he was fast. It was almost as if he knew I was coming, or at least he wasn’t surprised to find me there. He let her go, and she slumped to the ground. My eyes followed her for just a second, but it was enough time for him to swing around with his hands locked together and catch me in the side of the face. Stupid move on my part.”
She hesitated again, remembering the helpless feeling as she went down, thinking she might never get up. “Then I was on my knees, and he followed up the punch with a kick. At least I saw that coming and managed to roll away from most of it. His foot connected with my hip but it wasn’t that bad. I was still between him and the street, and the alley wasn’t that wide. I knew I had to get up or he would just jump over me and be gone. As I got to my feet, he grabbed my shirt and punched me low, below the bottom of my vest. And that’s when I hit him with the butt of my service revolver.”
“He hurt you.” It was a statement, because the facts spoke for themselves. “Do you remember hitting him?”
Mitchell blinked as if awakening from a dream. She could still smell his sweat, and the coppery odor of blood, and the acrid stench of her own fear. She felt the ache between her thighs where his fist had landed, and she saw with perfect clarity the battered face of the woman lying on the ground.
She stared at Catherine for so long that Catherine began to wonder if she would answer. Finally, Catherine asked again, “Officer, do you remember striking him?”
Mitchell wasn’t certain what she should say. She didn’t know how her words would be used against her. She met the warm green eyes that held such tenderness, an acceptance that eased some part of the terrible pain, and she answered hoarsely, “No.”
Chapter Eight
“Sorry I’m late,” Catherine said breathlessly. “Traffic.�
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“That’s all right. How are you? I haven’t seen you at all the last few days except at conferences.” Hazel Holcomb settled into her chair and regarded her colleague with a speculative expression.
Catherine shrugged wearily as she dropped her briefcase by the sofa, then smiled deprecatingly. “I could plead workload, but…I think I’ve been avoiding you.”
“Aha.” Hazel sipped her coffee and pulled an ottoman over in front of her chair with her toe. Propping both feet up, she raised her cup slightly. “Coffee?”
“Tonight, I think I’ll take you up on it.” Catherine walked to the antique credenza against one wall in Hazel’s home office/study and poured the aromatic brew into a delicate china cup. “I’m surprised that you even use these except for special occasions,” she remarked absently as she sat down across from Hazel. “They’re so beautiful.”
“Too lovely to keep behind glass. Now, let’s get back to that therapeutically laden statement about avoiding me.”
“You said I should see you regularly, and I didn’t want you to remind me about that.”
“Why not?”
“Probably because there’s something I don’t want to talk about.”
“Only one thing?” Hazel asked in mock seriousness. “How fortunate. We should be able to clear that up tonight then.”
Catherine laughed. “All right. Several things.”
“And yet you called me for the appointment this afternoon.”
“Yes,” Catherine admitted. “I know enough to recognize avoidance, and I know that’s not the answer. So, here I am.”
“How are you sleeping?”
“Better.”
“And the dreams?”
Catherine shook her head. “Not for the last couple of nights.”
“Good.” She didn’t need to add that it might be temporary. The younger psychiatrist knew that, of course. “Then what’s troubling you?”
“I suddenly realized that I don’t know very much about being in a relationship.”
“Interesting, isn’t it, how we never appreciate that fact until we’re actually faced with it,” the older woman mused. “What’s happened to make you think that now?”
“Rebecca has gone back to work, and I don’t know how to…react to it.”
Hazel emptied her cup and leaned over to place it on the end table next to her chair. “Reactions aren’t something you think about, they’re something you feel. How do you feel, Catherine?”
“A little insecure. I’m not certain where I fit in her life anymore.” She hesitated, then added, “Or where she fits in mine.”
“Do you love her?”
“Yes.” That was something she didn’t even need to think about.
“And her? Does she love you?”
“Ah,” Catherine said softly. “How do you do that?”
“What?” Hazel asked quietly.
“Ask the right question.”
“Part of it is practice, as you very well know. And part of it is my knowing you. And part of it is knowing what we all fear—that our love may not be returned. So…why are you insecure about her feelings for you?”
“She’s so damn self-sufficient,” Catherine replied, surprised at the anger she heard in her own voice.
“And?” Hazel prompted.
“I’m afraid that all she really needs is her work.”
“Some people would say that about me. Or you.”
“Yes,” Catherine countered, her tone still sharp. “But my work won’t get me killed…”
“And hers might,” Hazel finished softly.
“And that’s the real issue, isn’t it?” Catherine leaned back into the cushions and closed her eyes. Finally she said, “I’m supposed to meet her for dinner after this.” She opened her eyes and sat forward. “Would you mind very much if we cut this session short? I just need to see her.”
“It’s your time, Catherine. I’m certain you know how best to use it. Go see her and let her remind you of what it was that first touched you about her.”
“Thank you.”
“And Catherine,” Hazel added as her colleague gathered her things to leave. “Give yourself a little time. She wasn’t the only one struck by that bullet.”
*
Catherine waited until she reached the expressway before calling Rebecca. She drove with one eye on the traffic, preparing herself for disappointment as she half-expected that the detective would not be home. When the phone was answered on the second ring, she realized she’d been holding her breath. Hurriedly, she said, “Hi. I’m done early and I was wondering—”
“Terrific. Would you like to go out or—”
“No,” Catherine said quickly, “let’s stay in. We can watch a movie. I can cook—”
“Don’t bother—I’ll take care of that,” Rebecca said swiftly, then broke into laughter. “Maybe if we stop interrupting each other, we’ll be able to figure out what we’re doing. Is thirty minutes all right?”
“Anytime,” Catherine said, her voice suddenly husky. God, she’d never thought she could miss someone so much after just a day apart.
“I’ll be right there,” Rebecca replied in a tone filled with promise.
In fact, by the time Catherine found a parking place and walked the half-block to her brownstone, Rebecca had arrived and was waiting on her front steps, leaning a shoulder against the doorframe, hands in her pockets, and eyes fixed on Catherine’s face. The sight of her, all long lines and lean strength, produced a storm of anticipation in Catherine’s stomach.
“Have you been waiting long?” Catherine asked as she hurried up the stairs, searching in her briefcase with one hand for her keys.
“Only a minute.”
The four marble stairs bracketed by wrought-iron railings that led to Catherine’s front door were not very wide, and as she reached past the taller woman to fit her key into the lock, their bodies brushed lightly together. Absurdly, her hands began to shake. It was moments like this that made her wonder how she had ever believed that she understood anything about life or human relationships. How could she, when she had never experienced anything like this before? Of course, there was no understanding it, as it made absolutely no sense that the mere presence of this woman could reduce her to nothing more than raw nerve endings and mindless desire.
“You’re trembling,” Rebecca murmured. “Are you all right?”
“No,” Catherine said as she pushed the door open and entered hurriedly.
Rebecca followed with a paper bag filled with groceries tucked under her right arm. She set it down on the telephone table just inside the door and stood still, regarding Catherine intently as she dropped her briefcase. “What’s wrong? Has something happened?”
“No. Everything is fine.” Hesitating, Catherine wondered how much to say and then, at a loss for logic, simply said, “It’s just that…these last few weeks, I was so used to coming home and you would be here. We’d have dinner; we’d talk; we’d sleep together. I miss you.”
For an instant, Rebecca was stunned. She still wasn’t used to the fact that Catherine, so accomplished and intelligent…and so damn wonderful, could even want to spend any time with her, let alone miss her when they were apart. It was fantastic and terrifying, and she expected at any moment for it all to disappear. But there Catherine stood, three feet away, looking at her with something close to sadness in her eyes, and the thought of Catherine hurting in any way tore through Rebecca more sharply than any bullet ever could.
Propelled by concern, she swiftly crossed the distance between them and pulled the other woman close, whispering fervently, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry about last night. I wanted to be with you.”
Threading her arms around Rebecca’s neck, Catherine pressed tightly against her, content for the moment to forego words and simply feel. Besides, there were no words to describe the sensation of everything suddenly being made right by a simple embrace. She didn’t understand it, but the veracity of it was undeniable. Rebecca’s han
ds moving softly over her back felt more essential to her being than the air she was breathing. “I love you.”
Rebecca closed her eyes and pressed her cheek against the silky softness of Catherine’s hair. “I love you.”
“Is there food in that bag?” Catherine asked after her breathing had steadied, leaning back slightly in the circle of Rebecca’s arms and letting her eyes play over that strong face.
“There is,” Rebecca replied, but it wasn’t food that she hungered for. Deftly, she lifted the blouse from beneath the band of Catherine’s slacks and slid her hand onto the warm skin at the base of Catherine’s spine. Circling her fingers over the hollow just above her lover’s hips, she pressed her own hips forward, drawing a gasp from the woman in her arms. “But it will keep.”
Their lips met, and for a time they merely swayed together in the midst of the gathering darkness, hands claiming flesh and lips pledging promises with kisses that grew more abandoned with each passing second. Catherine finally pulled back when she thought she was in danger of falling, her legs shook so badly. Gasping, she asked, “Does this go away? This feeling of never being able to get close enough?”
“I don’t know,” Rebecca answered, desperate for air, her chest heaving. “I’ve never felt it before.”
“It doesn’t really matter,” Catherine murmured almost to herself as she worked the buttons free on Rebecca’s shirt, pulling it from the trousers as she did. She pushed the constraining fabric aside and slid her palms over firm muscles, capturing the soft swell of breasts in her palms. “It’s beyond my control.”
“Good…don’t stop then…” Rebecca groaned, her knees nearly buckling as pinpoints of pleasure streaked from beneath knowing fingers. She shrugged her shirt off onto the floor and pressed her pelvis hard into Catherine’s, needing more—more contact, more connection, more sweet torture. Arching her back, she closed her eyes and tried to steady herself with her hands on Catherine’s shoulders. When she felt Catherine’s teeth on her neck, she thought her head would explode. She’d never had a woman take her this way, and she’d never even known before how much she’d wanted it. But she did. More than wanted it—she craved it. The feeling of surrendering to Catherine’s passion was more freeing than anything she had ever experienced. “Just don’t stop…”