A/N: In loving memory of Nancy Lynn Van Vleet and Benjamin James Filkil - I will miss you guys for the rest of my life
The music was loud, smoke hung over the massed partiers, and Avery Bennett looked at her friend, then checked her watch. "C'mon, let's get out of here, I can't hear you and I can hardly breath." Avery's eyes had the glazed, one martini too many look Claire had known for years; she wasn't completely sober herself, so she was willing to go. Claire didn't do the club scene often, but this was a new place, hot, and Avery really wanted to go. Partied out, they got up, knowing they'd reek of smoke and reel ever so slightly, but it was a good time nonetheless. Sometimes the headache was worth it.
The night air felt good, it was almost Halloween and the moon would be full in a day or two, Claire glanced up, it was a cloudless night and lovely, even with New York air. Claire shoved her hands in her jacket's pockets, ambling alongside Avery toward the corner, where they hoped to find a taxi.
"Did I hear you right in there?" Avery zipped her jacket as she walked, wobbling into Claire. "You think you're in love?"
"Know. I know I'm in love. I don't have to think about it." She smiled and playfully pushed Avery away as she was bumped again by her unsteady friend.
"No such thing as love," Avery said, "and I should know, I've tried enough times to find it." She stopped, then knelt down, sliding her loafer off and shaking it; a pebble fell out. "Princess and the pea," she said, grabbing Claire's hand for support as she stood. Claire smiled, Avery was indeed the princess, though she'd come a long way since their freshman year at Smith, where they were housemates, where their bond formed and a roommate switch occurred, they remained roommates all four years. Avery was the best friend Claire had, she wished they saw more of each other.
Avery was still holding Claire's hand when the man stepped out the alley, dressed in jeans, a black sweatshirt, and a ski mask. The pistol he pointed at them looked like a cannon to Claire's eyes. She froze. Avery wobbled, trying to focus on this apparition that appeared in the night.
"Whoa, dude," she said, "What's that, a suitable substitute for your penis?"
Shut up, Claire silently screamed, this is New York, we're being mugged, shut up and give him your money. She looked at her friend, who frowned when the huge pistol moved closer to her face. Oh my God, Claire thought. The pistol stopped against Avery's forehead, and then the man said "I'll take your purses, bitches, your watches, rings, whatever you have. Now."
Claire dropped her purse by his feet and reached for her watchband, but Avery's frown deepened and she said "You're kidding, right? You think I'm going to -"
The shot was a literal explosion in Claire's ears; she was blinded by the flash, by the brains, bone, and hair that splattered her face, her body.
Avery dropped like a stone, and Claire's legs crumpled, she hit the pavement on her bottom, shocked senseless. She didn't see the man grab the purses and run. She didn't see a car slow, stop, then accelerate. She did see the flashing lights of police cars, an ambulance.
"Maam." A uniformed cop knelt in front of her, his penlight playing across her face. "Maam, are you all right?"
Claire looked at him, was he speaking Greek? She shook her head, trying to clear it, shed the mess someone had thrown on her. The cop got up. "This one needs a paramedic." He looked down at Claire. "What's your name, lady?"
She stared straight ahead, sitting with her legs splayed, her palms flat on the sidewalk, thinking she should know these guys, she knew a lot of cops, but she didn't know what precinct this was. Another uni knelt beside her, armed with a penlight as well. She squinted against the invasive light.
"Jesus," this one said, "that's ADA Claire Kincaid. Holy fucking paperwork." Paramedics eased him out of the way as he spoke into his radio mike. Gentle hands examined her head, wiped the mess on her face, told her to sit tight for a minute, then they'd take her to Bellevue. She thought where the hell would I go, someone knocked me on my ass.
Another car came to a debris-spewing halt curbside. Claire thought it was foolish, all these cops around, the driver was going to get a ticket for illegal parking. Two men got out, and one of the uniforms spoke to them. They nodded, approached, and then knelt, flanking Claire, each taking an arm, supporting her as she got to her feet. They guided her with great care to their car.
"Claire." The older man's voice was kind. "Claire, can you tell us what happened?"
She looked at him as the other one opened the back door of the car, his badge flashed on his lapel and reality began kicking in. "Lennie?" He nodded. "Lennie, what happened, where's Avery?"
"Sit, Claire," he said, and she was eased onto the bench seat in the back of the car, facing out, her feet on the ground. Lennie knelt, taking her hands and holding them between her knees. "We're hoping you can tell us what happened." He glanced at his partner, who was on his cell phone, his back to them. "Rey's calling Jack, we'll have him meet you at the hospital."
"But where's Avery?" And then she remembered. She screamed. She screamed over and over, yanking her hands from Lennie's and covering her face, screaming because the world changed, she was stuck in a terrible place, and she had no words for what happened. The paramedics were there, they walked her to the ambulance, supporting her, while that terrible scream continued. Her jacket was removed, her sleeve pushed up, something cold and wet touched her skin, then a needle pricked her arm, and seconds later, the screaming stopped. She was placed on a gurney, strapped securely to it, and the doors closed. The paramedics stayed close, swaying with the movement of the vehicle, watching her.
She was deep inside a warm fog, aware something terrible happened, but she felt safe, hidden away. The ambulance slowed, turned, stopped, and then reversed, and the motion made her ill, she turned her head and tried to rise; a perceptive paramedic had an emesis basin there before she hurled the two shots of vodka and the Diet Coke she'd switched to when she realized she was buzzed. Then her gurney was detached from its rack and she was rolled out of the ambulance, met by two women in blue surgical scrubs. The paramedics talked fast, reciting her vitals, the dosage of tranquilizer, some alcohol involved, and shock, serious shock, from standing next to a woman who'd had her head blown off. All of this poured from the agitated young paramedic as Claire was rolled into the ER, shivering now under her blankets.
She was put into a curtained cubicle. She'd been in places like this before, it was boring, she found staring at the ceiling much more interesting. Part of her mind detached itself for a minute, replaying Avery's head exploding, the horror penetrated the chemical fog and she vomited again, bile and dry heaves, but again, one of her attendants was prepared, a blue plastic basin caught what little there was to come up. The curtains were drawn and Claire's clothes removed and placed in a large, clear, plastic bag and sealed. The detached part of her observed the gore that covered them. A young woman brought a large basin of warm water and bathed her face and hair as a gown was slipped over her arms and shoulders. Then one of the women who met her at the ambulance came in through the curtains, pulling with both hands on the ends of the stethoscope draped around her neck. Zebra hair, Claire thought, for the physician had black hair with liberal streaks of gray, it hung to her shoulders and she absently pushed it behind her ears as she sat next to Claire.
"Put another blanket over her," she said to the nurses, then looked at Claire with great kindness. "I'm Ellen Boyd," she said, her voice had the gentleness of a mother with her wounded child. "I'll be your attending physician. Your body is fine, but you're in shock, you've been sedated, so if you're having trouble connecting your thoughts, that's why. I want to keep you overnight, for observation, you've been through a terrible experience."
Claire looked at her, thinking you have no idea how terrible it was. She nodded.
A nurse's voice, the voice of authority, came through the curtain. "You can't go in there, sir."
"Stop me," a man said, Claire knew that voice, and she focused on the curtain as Dr. Boyd spun around on the stool, ready to repel the invader. A handsome man in jeans and a black sweater pushed through the curtain. He walked straight to Claire, taking her hand. "My sweet Claire," he whispered.
Dr. Boyd stood, her grey eyes narrowed. "You can't be in here, sir, you'll have to wait outside."
"Jack," Claire said, and she squeezed his hand. "What are you doing here?"
"Are you her husband?" Dr. Boyd said.
"No. I'm her…boss at the district attorney's office and her boyfriend." He blew the last word out like substitute it was for the word he wanted to use.
"She can't be questioned right now, she's sedated, we're going to admit her."
"I'm not going to ask questions." His tone softened when the challenge to his presence was retracted, and he continued holding Claire's hand, looking at her, trying to hide his horror. Despite the sponge bath, her hair was matted with gore, smeared blood dried in her hairline. He looked at the doctor, his contemporary, her face, like his, reflected years of dealing with dreadful things humans did to one another. "For God's sake," he said, "give her a proper bath."
"As soon as she's admitted," Dr. Boyd answered. "Perhaps you'll go help with the admissions paperwork while we get her upstairs?" I should be so lucky, she thought, to have a young lover; experience told her he'd be in the way until they'd done all that was necessary to get her settled for the night.
"Yeah, sure," he said. "Where do I go?"
"The nurse's station where you came in," she said. "They'll let you know where we put her."
Jack bent over and kissed Claire's cheek, then said "I'll be back soon." He walked out of the cubicle, and Claire's eyes followed him, but she was neither pleased nor distressed at his absence. The camera in her mind focused on that single image again, Avery's head, and she closed her eyes, her hands contracting into tight fists.
"Do you feel sick again?" the doctor asked.
Claire shook her head. "I keep seeing it happen. She was my best friend." Tears leaked from her closed eyelids, and the doctor snatched a tissue from a box on an adjacent counter, blotting them with a soft touch.
"Is there anyone I can call for you? Your parents, maybe, or is Jack all you need?"
Claire opened her eyes, struggling to focus on the doctor, who was about her mother's age, but with kindness and intelligence in her eyes, instead of pre-programmed thoughts and subservience. "Jack," she said, and closed her eyes again.
Blankets were tucked in around her, the rails raised on either side of her, and she was rolled out into the chaos of the emergency room central area. She saw Lennie and Rey as she passed by, saw Rey take the plastic bag with her bloody clothes from one of the nurses. She was pushed into an elevator, then rode with her two attendants to the third floor.
It was a private room. The nurses were gentle, careful, but insistent that she could not take a shower unattended. With no fight left, she acquiesced and let them undress her, put her in the shower, and let them observe as she washed her hair, over and over, then scrubbed as if she could take her very skin off with the soap. She put on the green scrubs provided and got into bed, like an obedient six year old, an image that persisted when the nurses tucked her in. "Dr. Boyd will be in later," one said.
Avery wouldn't. As the door closed, her thoughts turned to her friend, and tears came, despite the sedation. What chemical could induce indifference to that? She wiped her eyes with the sheet, drew her knees up, then rolled on her side into the fetal position. She clutched the sheet in one hand, wiping tears as they flowed, feeling a huge hole open in her heart. Avery.
The door opened, but Claire didn't look. She remained focused on the opposite wall. Then Dr. Boyd pulled a chair to the bedside and sat down. Her presence demanded acknowledgment, Claire's eyes shifted to look at her. Dr. Boyd smiled.
"How's it going," she said. She saw the sheet, and half-rose to grab a box of tissues from the bedside table. She put them on the bed, then leaned back and crossed her legs. "Do you want to talk about it?" Claire shook her head. "There are two detectives outside, and your Jack should be up any minute, shall I send them all away?"
"You can't send cops away, it's an investigation."
"I can send anyone away," she said, with a hint of a smile. "When it comes to my patients, I'm God. What about Jack?"
"I want to see Jack."
She nodded. "All access pass, then, for your Jack. What's his last name?"
"McCoy."
"Need to note that, since he'll be exempted from visiting hours." She reached for Claire's hand, a light touch, somehow comforting. "It's going to hurt like hell when the shock wears off. I'd like to schedule a psych consult."
Claire shook her head again. "We have our own shrink. Seeing her will be mandatory."
"I'm leaving orders for sedation, so if you feel things you can't handle, don't want to handle, buzz the nurse. I'll be back to see you in the morning." She stood. "And I'll send those cops away."
"Doctor." She hesitated, and Dr. Boyd looked down at her. "Will you let Jack make that decision? He may be the DA, but he'll protect me - he won't let them talk to me if he thinks it's a bad idea."
"Nothing like a little conflict of interest," she said, and she touched Claire's shoulder. "All right, I'll let Mr. McCoy handle them, he looks like he could handle just about anybody."
"He'll take care of me."
She stroked Claire's head. "I hope so, somebody needs to. Try to sleep, Claire, and I'll see you in the morning, before I send you home." Her hand, the gesture, was so maternal to Claire, who had been denied such maternal warmth from infancy. Dr. Boyd smiled again, a small shelter against the bitter cold within Claire Kincaid, and turned away.
She left and Jack walked in, he'd been waiting for the doctor's exit. He sat in the chair, and he reached through the bedrails for Claire's hands. He cupped her delicate ones in his big masculine ones. She looked at him, waiting to feel something, anything, except this emptiness. The hole in her heart was growing, and it hurt as it chewed on her. He held her gaze, she saw his love but she couldn't feel it.
He waited a few minutes, then said, "Lennie and Rey would like to talk to you. Do you feel like it?"
She shook her head. "I know I'm supposed to, but I just can't. I don't have any words, Jack. I don't have any feelings, except this huge empty hole inside me."
"The space Avery occupied," he said.
She nodded. "I didn't know it was so big." She felt a contraction in her heart, what if Jack was taken from her, how big a hole would that leave, would she survive that loss? Tears filled her eyes, spilled over, and he pulled a tissue from the box and wiped them.
"I won't leave you, Claire," he said, reading her feelings, helpless against the force of her pain. "So I'll tell Lennie and Rey to talk to you tomorrow?"
She took his little finger, wrapping her fingers around it, squeezing her eyes shut, and bit her bottom lip. Then she drew a shaky breath. "No. I'll get it over with. They can come in." She released his finger and he stood, taking his warm hands with him, and she missed them. She put her hands under the covers, squeezing them between her thighs, they were so cold. Jack walked out of the room.
When he returned, with Lennie and Rey, the two detectives had the look of grown men who'd just been lectured on good manners. Jack took his place in the chair, and Claire's hands snaked out from the covers. He immediately enfolded them in his. Lennie and Rey stood next to Jack, so she could see them.
"Claire, I'm so sorry," Lennie said. "Jack told us she was your best friend."
Claire nodded, used her hands to pull Jack's protective ones under her chin. "Can you tell us what happened?"
"Avery was in town for the weekend. She wanted to go clubbing. We went to that new place, I'm sorry I don't remember its name." Her chin moved against Jack's hands. "We had a couple of drinks - I did, anyway, Avery liked to drink when she didn't have to get up in the morning. Then we left, it was smoky and hot in there, and we were walking up to the corner, to grab a cab. And he came out of the alley. He pointed a gun at us." She nuzzled Jack's hands again. "Avery didn't come to New York often, she didn't understand about muggers. In Atlanta, things are different. And he put the gun against her head and he shot her." The pain in her chest, her stomach, exploded. "Jack," she said, the tears flowing. He put his right hand on her cheek, stroked her cheekbone with his thumb, kept his eyes focused on hers. It was painfully intimate communication to the observant detectives, who knew, like everyone else, that they were dating. No one realized how deep their love was.
"Claire," Rey said, shifting his weight from one leg to the other. "We'll talk to you again tomorrow, try to get some sleep." Claire didn't answer, but Jack did.
Without looking away from her, he said "Call me first, Detective."
"Yes sir," Rey answered. He and Lennie left the hospital room, essentially empty handed, Claire couldn't give them the answers they needed now, and it was clear Jack would not tolerate anyone heaping more pain on her. Waiting at the elevators, Rey said, "Man, McCoy's in love, who would have thought that possible."
"It happens," Lennie said. "She's the best thing that ever happened to McCoy, she humanizes him."
The elevator doors opened and they stepped in, Lennie pushed the button for the first floor. "That silent communication. I wonder what she told him."
Rey shrugged. "I was embarrassed, it was too much like watching people making love."
Lennie snorted. "That's exactly what they were doing, kid. You just saw two souls going at it, it's called eye sex."
Rey flushed. "C'mon, Lennie, don't degrade it. It was embarrassing, but it was sweet, too."
The car stopped and they got out, threading their way through light foot traffic to the exit. "I'm not degrading it. I wish I'd had it with at least one of my wives. You're thinking sex, I'm telling you it was making love - he was loving her and getting it in return." He unlocked their car. "I'm telling you, I'm jealous. No one has ever loved me that much."
Rey buckled his seat belt. "I know how much I love Deborah, but I gotta say, I've never had that, either." He shifted in the seat.
Lennie laughed, easing into traffic. "Quit trying to imagine what they're like between the sheets or you're going to have one long night." He glanced at Rey, whose blush was visible as they passed under a streetlight. "C'mon, that's exactly what you're doing, you see that and you wonder what the real thing must be like."
"No I don't."
"Then you're not human, kid, cause I sure do, McCoy is the luckiest son of a bitch in New York."
"If you're going to be a dirty old man and start speculating on what Claire Kincaid's like in bed, you can drop me at the station, I have DD5's to do."
Lennie laughed, stopping for a red light. "Don't take life so seriously, Rey. One thing our job teaches us is the brevity of it all. And if you can tell me, with a straight face and a genuflection, that you haven't once, just once, thought about taking her to bed, then I'm going to question your manhood."
Rey put the window down, cool air rushed in and he hoped it chilled his face. "OK, OK." He leaned his elbow on the car door, sucking in the air, feeling more in control of his all too expressive face. "I admit it, the first couple of times I met her, I lusted in my heart."
"And then went straight to confession."
"I did, as a matter of fact."
He thumped Rey on the shoulder, grinning. "Then we're in agreement, Jack McCoy is the luckiest son of a bitch in New York. And he knows it."
000
Jack got into the hospital bed with Claire, wiggling his long body in beside her, left arm around her waist and his right arm under her neck, his hand holding hers. She fitted her back against him, automatically moving into the curves and bumps she knew so well, feeling his chest against her back. It was all she felt, his physical presence filling space. A nurse came in half an hour later, with the prescribed sedation so the patient would sleep; she halted just inside the door, her hip catching it and keeping it open, and gawked, outraged.
"Hey!" she said, and marched to the bed, the little tray with the hypodermic and the order for administration in one hand. "What do you think you're doing, sir? No one is allowed to get in bed with a patient."
Claire stared at the wall, but her hand in Jack's became a fist. Jack raised his head and regarded the tall redhead with a big ass speculatively. He cleared his throat, then used his court voice. "I am the Executive Assistant District Attorney, I can do anything I damn well please, including indicting you for interfering with a witness."
Her eyes widened, then narrowed - she'd been challenged by someone who thought the rules didn't apply to him, well, she knew how to deal with that. "Sir, you will get out that bed now or I'll call security. The patient must rest, and your conduct is outrageously offensive."
Ah shit, Claire thought, this idiot thinks he wants to screw me. She didn't know Jack, but she was going to, up close and personal, in about two seconds. Jack pushed up on his right elbow, releasing her hand for the moment, but his left pressed into the curve of her hip.
"Call anyone you please, including the local precinct. Or her physician, try her first, tell her you caught the Manhattan DA holding his most precious witness to a crime, hoping she'd sleep. Call the cops, we'll see who goes out in handcuffs. Now, if you have medication for her, give it to her, and then get the hell out of here." He eased back down, his hand again enclosing Claire's.
Now Nurse Ratchet was unbalanced, off her game. She chose to administer the medicine first, then she'd make some phone calls and see who got tossed out of her hospital. She put the tray on the wheeled meal table, then pulled back the covers. There was a fully dressed Jack, with Claire's trembling body pressed against him. She tore open an alcohol wipe, pushed the gown aside, and thoroughly wiped Claire's hip. Then she uncapped the needle and gave the injection. When she'd wiped the injection site with a fresh alcohol towelette, she rearranged Claire's gown and the covers. Collecting the debris on the tray, she fixed Jack with a look meant to intimidate. He smiled in invitation, then snuggled his hips back into Claire's.
The woman he thought of as Nurse Ratchet, whose name was Tammy Brown, stalked out of the room and back into the brightly lit central area. She disposed of the needle as procedure dictated, initialed the order slip and noted the time, and added it to the patient file. Then she turned to the charge nurse, who was sitting at the desk, rubbing one foot with her hand. She glanced up at Nurse Brown, smelling an issue she didn't want to deal with.
"What is it, Tammy." She cracked her toes, one at a time, sighing with each pop.
"There's a man in bed with the patient in oh four." She put her hands on her hips. "Who do I call, security or the police?"
Marty Gruelle put her shoe on. "Was that man by any chance named Jack McCoy?"
"He didn't furnish his name, he just claimed to be the DA."
Marty rolled her eyes. "He is, Tammy. If you'd bothered to read the physician's addendum when you came on shift, you would know that, and that she is his girlfriend as well as a witness and a victim, a terrible crime." She stood and stretched, her back was killing her. Resigned to heading off a scene, she changed her tone. "Dr. Boyd left instructions that he was exempt from visiting hours, and given what happened to her, if having her boyfriend sleep beside her helps, hell, I'll give him an extra pillow."
"He's in bed with her, Marty! You know the rules better than I do, or you're supposed to. I'm calling the cops."
Marty put a restraining hand on her second in command of the shift. "I doubt he's having sex with her, Tammy. And if you call the cops, I have a feeling you'll wish you hadn't."
"You're going to ignore this?"
"I am." She tried a smile. "If you catch them having sex, then feel free to call the cops." When Tammy frowned deeper, she gave up. "I'm telling you to ignore it. Write me up, it'll keep you busy, but I'm ordering you to ignore it."
"I'll do that." She walked to the file cabinet where official forms were stored. Marty Gruelle shook her head, then sat down to rub her other foot.
000
Claire slept after the injection, her head under Jack's chin, her legs curved to fit between his knees, pressed tightly against him for warmth. Jack drifted into a light sleep, waking when she moved, when she cried out in pain he sat up, then gathered his sobbing woman into his lap, letting the pain bleed over him. It was then that the door opened. Jack looked up, ready to battle, but it was a different nurse, a heavy-set woman holding a chart.
She quickly closed the door and came to the bed. Claire's sobs were silent, but obvious, and Jack held her as tightly as he could. "Mr. McCoy?" The new nurse put the chart on the meal table. "Is she --"
"Nightmare, I think," he said, and he stroked the back of Claire's head.
The nurse watched for a few seconds as Claire's sobbing eased, as she responded to Jack's touch, whispers, strength. "I'm Nurse Gruelle, by the way," she said, "night charge nurse. I have to take her vitals."
He nodded. "Claire? Baby?" He held her head between his hands and looked into her eyes. She listened as he told her the nurse had to take her vital signs, to breathe deeply, relax, so they could go home in the morning. He eased down with her, enfolding her body with his as much as possible. The nurse attached the blood pressure cuff and powered it, then put the thermometer in Claire's mouth. Those tasks accomplished, she took her pulse, then checked her pupils.
"All done," she said, and she covered them. "Mr. McCoy, I wanted to apologize for Nurse Brown earlier. She has a thing for rules."
"So do I, depending on the context."
She picked up the chart. "Call me if she has another nightmare, if you need anything."
She didn't. She didn't sleep. She lay in Jack's arms, waiting to feel something besides this dreadful disconnection with her world. She knew Jack was awake, that he wouldn't sleep if she didn't; she was comfortable in his arms, familiar with his body, his movements, twitches. It was the only connection she felt to anything, this intimacy with his body. As light seeped around the blinds, she turned over to face him. She put her palm on his cheek, rubbing the stubble, she'd always loved that, loved making love in the morning before he shaved, reveling in the sensation of new growth against her face, her neck, her breasts. "My love," she said.
He did as she did, cupping her face in his hand, his thumb moving slowly along her cheekbone. Her light brown eyes were dulled, but they could still communicate. He answered back, his dark brown eyes locked on hers, I love you, I will help you get through this, no, I will never leave you, please don't ever leave me, Claire. And she moved her thumb along his jaw, feeling the stubble but nothing else, promising him she would never leave him, that she would get through this, that they would have their life, but how could she forget Avery? You don't have to forget, he promised, you will reach a point where you can remember without so much pain, I'll go there with you.
Nurse Ratchet opened the door and flipped the light switch. She saw the intimacy in a heartbeat, felt certain she had come in at just the right moment to stop this man from having sex with her patient. She expected them to break apart, be embarrassed, flinch from the light. They did not. Whatever was passing between them continued, until, a few seconds later, he leaned over and kissed her cheek. "Enough!" she screeched, and then Jack rose up, staring at his newest nemesis. He sat, his knees drawn up but splayed, she had a perfect view of his crotch and the lack of an erection, while Claire simply stayed on her side, her hand on his thigh. Tammy Brown was furious, self-righteousness at its best, she'd by God caught them about to copulate, and she spun around, going to the phones in the nurses' station, where she called the police. Arms folded across her chest, she waited for them to arrive.
A squad car must have been close by, for within ten minutes, two cops came to the desk. "OK, where's the perv?" one of them asked.
"Follow me." Tammy led them to Claire's room and pushed the door open. Jack was sitting in the chair, Claire's bed was empty, but the bathroom door was closed. Jack stood when the cops came in. Tammy pointed at him, her moment for high drama, she'd made a promise and by God this man was going to pay for his insolence.
"Oh Jesus Christ," said the taller cop. He turned and looked at Tammy. "Lady, are you nuts?" He shook his head, then looked at Jack. "Good morning, Mr. McCoy."
"Officers."
"Arrest him," Tammy said. "He was about to have sex with a patient, who's been heavily sedated, taking advantage."
The bathroom door opened then and Claire, wrapped in a hospital robe, came out, stopped when she saw the cops, and then looked at Jack. He shrugged. The other cop came unglued then, turning to Tammy Brown.
"Nurse Nutso, you are out of your fucking mind. That man is a district attorney, and she is, too. If you think I'd even consider arresting Mr. McCoy, you are so fucking nuts I should be taking you with me." His face was red. "I'm so sorry, Mr. McCoy, Ms. Kincaid. Have a good day." He and his partner left with as much dignity as they possessed, leaving Tammy to stare at Jack and Claire.
Claire got back in bed, and Jack covered her, then kissed her lightly. "Want coffee?" he asked, ignoring the nurse who stared at them.
"No, but thanks." She looked at the nurse. "Excuse me, but am I on display or something?"
Tammy recovered then, and left the room. Jack grinned, but Claire just shrugged.
"Jack, I want to go home, but I haven't any clothes."
"I'll go get some." He thought. Her apartment was actually closer, so he'd run over there, with luck he could be back in half an hour, forty-five minutes. He found his shoes and put them on, then kissed her, hoping she'd respond a little. "Back in less than an hour," he promised.
While he was gone, she had her vitals taken yet again, her breakfast brought, which she left untouched on the meal table, and sat on the bed, hugging her knees. She thought of Avery, a mental slideshow of images dating back to those first days at Smith, of a pretty, energetic girl born to privilege and imbued with mischief. A camping trip to Europe. Sitting at the top of the Zugspitze. A summer at the family home in Vermont. Lazy days lying in the sun. Exam weeks. Someone running through the house shouting "Avery!" with amused outrage. Oh Avery, she thought, the things you taught me, you gave me. How could someone as alive as you be gone? Avery's arms, around her in a tight goodbye hug, in a hello friend greeting, just around her. Avery always said she was a world class smartass - you were, my friend, and that's what got you killed.
Jack came back, with her favorite pair of jeans and a white crewneck sweater, clean underwear, socks appropriate for the boots he'd chosen. A brown leather blazer. She could always trust Jack to dress her. As she put her clothes on, reality intruded farther. There were things she had to do: credit cards, and most importantly, her credentials, had to be reported stolen. She looked at Jack and sighed.
"I have a shitload of stuff to do," she said, sitting on the edge of the bed.
"I reported your stolen credentials," he said. "I called Adam while I was at your apartment. He said he'd take care of it, and we could have the day off. Moser," he said, responding to her unspoken question. "Moser will get justice for Avery."
Her head drooped, she studied the laces on her boots. "I'll have to talk to Lennie and Rey."
"Yeah. Whenever you want."
Dr. Boyd walked in, Claire's chart in hand. "Morning," she said. "How are you doing, Claire?"
"I'm existing."
She glanced at Jack. "I hear one of our lunatic nurses tried to have you arrested." She smiled. "I would have paid good money to see her face when the cops told her she was crazy." Jack grinned, and she turned back to Claire, examining her eyes, checking her pulse, her responses to different stimuli. Then she turned back to Jack. "We both have experience with grieving families," she said, "but this is going to be different. This is personal, up close and very personal. I highly recommend a psychiatric consult. And a lot of patience on your part. Everyone grieves differently, heals at different rates, copes in their own way. Just love each other, and be grateful for the memory of what you had, Claire, that memory will become so precious. Talk it out with a shrink, get the horror, the anger, the pain out. OK?" Claire nodded, and Dr. Boyd signed a paper, took it off the chart, and gave it to Claire. Then she took a pad out of her pocket and scribbled on it, tore the page off, and added it to Claire's hand. "A few tranquilizers, for those very bad days or nights."
The day was overcast and windy. Jack had Claire's car, switching to it from his motorcycle when he got her clothes. He opened the door for her, watched her open the pharmacy bag and stare at the label on the bottle, then she looked at him. "Home?"
He nodded. "I want you with me, OK? My apartment?"
"Yeah, sure." Avery had never been to Jack's. Then she remembered. Avery's suitcase was still in Claire's apartment. She turned and looked at Jack, pulling at the seatbelt cutting across her chest. "Jack -"
He glanced at her, then back to the road. "I put it away," he said. "I packed her things and I put it away, in the closet."
A few tears slipped down her cheeks, and she swiped them with her fingers. "My love," she said, choking on emotion, the first she'd felt since last night, and it was too strong, she bent over, her head on her knees, her fists striking her shins. He put his hand on her back.
He parked near his building, and walked with her, his arm loosely around her waist. His doorman said good morning, Jack returned the greeting, still guiding Claire, she was as fragile as bone china right now. The first wave, he thought, more will come. He unlocked his door and ushered her inside. She shed the leather blazer where she stood and walked slowly to the couch. She stood in front of it as if it was a foreign object and she was unsure of its use. Jack hung her blazer in the closet, then got a couple of Diet Cokes. He put one in her hand, then eased her down onto the couch. He opened his drink, took a long draft, then put it down and opened hers. She seemed to wake up then.
She took a swallow, then leaned back and against Jack, fitting herself to him as always, puzzle pieces that seamlessly interlocked. She once marveled that two bodies could fit so perfectly together, especially theirs, he was five inches taller, many pounds heavier, muscular and tight, whereas she was finely formed, delicate in appearance, projecting vulnerability, which she hated, she wanted to be as tough and cynical as the guys at the office, but that simply wasn't possible. And those men, those tough, cynical cowboys, responded first to her beauty and vulnerability, discovering later her intelligence and determination, the combative side that lurked beneath her exquisite beauty. Jack, though, had never underestimated her, never taken her beauty as the essence of her self. She'd always known she fell in love with him the first day she met him, when she got a good look at that fine butt of his, when he unleashed that killer crooked smile and asked "Can we get to work now?" He'd told her that he'd been in lust with her since the day he saw her in Ben Stone's office as he walked past, how he'd done a double take and envied Ben his good fortune. They'd been in bed, on a Sunday morning, naked and lazy and drinking Jack's good coffee out of oversized mugs - she'd bought them at Macy's one day, saying she was tired of one of them having to get up for refills - and he'd been honest about it, he wanted to take her to bed from the instant he saw her, and when he turned to see her in his office, had nearly embarrassed himself on the spot. But I loved you, he said, the minute you stood up to me, held your own on a minor point of feminism, which was what, six hours after we formally met?
"So why," she asked, "did we take so long to get around to this?"
He'd grinned, that grin that could charm her out of her pants in a second, and said "Fear. I was afraid of you."
No way, she'd said, and yes way he'd said, he was afraid of getting hurt, of opening his heart to her and being rejected. Yes, he knew she was as attracted physically to him as he was to her, but for the first time in his life, he hadn't wanted to have sex without love.
She drank her Diet Coke, her free hand resting on his thigh, her head on his shoulder. This, she thought, is Jack McCoy - kind, supportive, loving, and he never let anyone see it. She'd detected the deep well of loneliness within him not long after they began working together, surprised at the tenderness that knowledge provoked in her. He was shy about his invitations, trying to make them sound casual, as if a rejection was no big deal, and because she loved him, she accepted his invitations as if sure, why not. She wasn't ready for a bruised heart, either, so she did not let him know she loved him, if he told her he didn't love her, she would have been heartbroken.
"Lust was our downfall," she said.
His head jerked, he twisted to look at her. "Excuse me?"
"Oh God." She flushed a little. "I was just remembering loving you so much and being as afraid as you were to say it."
"Ah, yeah." He smiled. "I was about to die from blueballs, if we hadn't finally given in I'm sure I'd be dead from semen overload by now."
And she remembered Avery, telling her about losing her virginity, she made it a funny story, Claire laughed with her, imagining the scene. Jack hadn't taken her virginity, of course, but he might as well have, because after he'd made love to her for the first time, she knew what she'd been missing. Avery, telling her that a good blow job was an art form, master it and men would be your slaves forever, Avery who bragged that her gag reflex was defective and so she could handle anything, Avery, who was all of twenty when she told Claire these stories, late at night, in their bedroom, Smith seemed so far away now, like a dimly recalled dream. She smiled, not realizing Jack was watching her.
"What," he said.
She looked at him, then sipped her drink. "Something Avery told me once." She repeated Avery's words of wisdom and he laughed.
"A very smart woman," he said.
"Yes, she was." She scratched his thigh, ever so lightly, tracing a pattern. "I think she taught me a few things."
He didn't quite know how to take that, so he went with the moment, lightness and the sweet pull of memory. "She taught you well about blow jobs."
She looked up and the innocence in her eyes touched him. "You have no idea," she said, then, "She taught me that things should be experienced, to take the chance, that if I followed my heart, then I would always respect myself." She sighed. "I'm not sure that's always held true, but for the most part I have to say she was right." She tilted her head up to look at him. "One of the last things she said last night was that she'd learned love didn't exist. I guess someone broke her heart, that's why she came up to visit, she wanted to get away for a couple of days." She turned the Diet Coke in circles on her thigh. "She used to sing Aretha Franklin's 'Natural Woman' - and she painted the most amazing things. She always sang when she painted, and when she was singing you make me feel like a natural woman, I knew something erotic was going to come marching into our room at some point, something to outrage our housemates, a canvas of penises, or -" she stopped, the memories were too painful. She didn't want pain to be the only thing she felt again. She wanted desperately to feel, primal true feeling, and she put her drink down. "Jack."
"Claire."
She turned and looked at him, he was suddenly afraid that she would ask him for something he couldn't do, or would cause her more pain. She put her palm on his chest, feeling his heart beat. "Will you love me? Slowly? I want to feel something other than all this…this pain that alternates with emptiness. Will you love me, fill me, help me feel something?"
He nodded. She was too serious, in such need, that he could do or say nothing that could be misinterpreted. They got up, and he took her hand, leading her to his bedroom. She wanted him to lead, to touch her in so many ways, he couldn't let her down. He pulled her sweater over her head, slowly, everything must move slowly, he knew, she wanted that dream-like quality they'd had before, when all he wanted was to please her, when there was all the time in the world, when anything but a sweet agonizing slowness would have been wrong. He let the sweater drop, then pulled her close, kissing her as he reached behind her, unhooking her bra, still kissing her as he worked the straps down her arms, and it hit the floor by their feet. Kissing her neck, he unbuttoned her jeans, pulled the zipper, hooked his thumbs in her waistband and inched them over her hips. She stepped out of them, mashing them with her feet as she unbuckled his belt. He stopped her. He kissed her neck, her shoulders, working her panties free of that incredible body. She was naked, and he ran his hands along her sides, over the curve of her hips, over her ass and up her back, then he stepped away, pulling his sweater off, then getting out of his jeans before unbuttoning his shirt and letting it fall off his shoulders, holding his arms out, she unbuttoned his cuffs and he was free of all but his shorts. He pulled the bedspread back, the top sheet, lay down with her, kissing her, his lips wanted to kiss every inch of her.
He wouldn't let her touch him, this was all for her. Though he knew her body well, he explored it anew, touching, tasting, teasing. When he thought she was ready, emotionally ready, he slipped inside her, joining their bodies with one hard thrust. He searched her eyes, was he pleasing her? She kissed him, raising her head off the pillow, stretching a little, he lowered himself completely, let her bear his weight while he kissed her. His need for her, for reaching her, filling that empty space was great, he loved her with every cell of his being. She was loving him back, her eyes locked into his, her back arching as he drove his full length into her. She was meeting him now, he moved faster, harder. Her legs wrapped around his waist, slipped on the sweat of his back and hips, driving back at him with the same force, she wrapped them around his, her nails digging into his back, and then she came, wave after wave of nearly convulsive feeling, her walls gripping him so tightly that with a final thrust, he emptied himself and collapsed onto her.
He moved off her, lying propped on his elbow, brushing hair away from her damp face. She smiled, reached up to trace his nose, his lips, then he eased down, his elbow burning, wincing, he slid his arm under her neck and caressed her far shoulder. She turned, facing him, closing her eyes as her head lay on his shoulder, their legs tangling together. It worked, for an hour. For one hour, she felt sensation, felt Jack's love, the generosity of his hidden heart, and it came crashing down when she wished Avery could have known this kind of love for just one hour.
"Claire." He kissed the top of her head. "It's OK, my love. She would have found it one day."
As always, he could pick up her most intense feelings. How could she tell him that once Avery did find it but could not keep it? She focused on him, on his body, on the honesty of his touch, closing down thoughts of Avery for now. This was her love, the love of her life, she knew it, and she held him, wanting this moment, this afternoon, to last. And then the phone rang.
He swore, then twisted, reaching behind for the phone. "McCoy." He listened, frowning, looking at Claire, and then he sighed. "OK. You'll have to come here, though. Fine, see you in an hour." He hung up and fell on his back. "Lennie and Rey. Do this for Avery, help them find the bastard, no matter how much it hurts to tell it."
She nodded, then sat up. "I guess I better shower." Gathering up her discarded clothes, she went into the bathroom, Jack heard running water, and he got up, walking into the kitchen to pour a scotch. He drank it, leaning against the counter, he knew he had reached Claire for that brief time, now she was retreating again, into her grief and pain. It was a start. He sensed that this loss was unusually devastating, probably because it happened right in front of her, there were no comforting ideas of quick and painless, no questions like did she suffer. One moment her best friend was there, the next minute Claire wore her brains and bone on her head, face, clothes. No wonder she was shutting down. He tried to imagine losing Claire, his best friend as well as his lover, he couldn't conceive it, just allowing the thought access brought an intense pain that made him want to hold her again, reassure himself she was still there. He put the empty glass down and walked into the bathroom, getting in the shower with her, putting his arms around her.
"I need you," he said.
"I know." She rubbed soapy hands on his chest. "I won't leave you, Jack."
000
They were dressed when the detectives arrived, though Claire's hair was still damp. They sat in the living room, Claire very still and quiet next to Jack. Lennie and Rey sat in chairs across from the couch.
"How are you today, Claire?" he asked.
"I'm OK, Lennie. I want to help you find this prick, but I'm not sure I can. He wore a ski mask, it was dark."
"Could you tell anything about him?" Rey had his notebook out.
"Caucasian, about six one," she glanced at Jack, mentally comparing heights, the man had seemed about Jack's height, "and a little heavy, maybe two fifty? Jeans, dark shirt, dark ski mask." She frowned, thinking. "Wait. His hand. The one that held the gun. He had a tattoo, maybe two snakes coiled together? It was dark, we were out of range of the streetlight, but I remember that, I was mesmerized by that gun and so afraid." She reached for Jack's hand. "He just shot her. Boom. Then he grabbed our purses and ran. I remember my legs went out from under me, I just sat down. Hard." She had the bruise to prove it.
"What about his voice? Any accent?" Lennie leaned forward, his elbows on his knees.
"New York. I'd guess Long Island." She seemed to shrivel. "I wish I could be more help."
"You're doing fine, Claire," Lennie said, glancing at Rey, who nodded. "Did you get the feeling that maybe he was waiting for you? Like maybe he'd been in the club, saw you two, and slipped out ahead of you?"
She frowned, drew nearer to Jack. "No, I don't think so. He wasn't dressed for a club anyway." She rubbed her knee. "Why?"
"It's just that a man about six feet, in jeans, was in the club, he was asked to leave and he copped a bad attitude. Witness said he wore a black shirt, though, not sweatshirt. No mention of a tattoo."
"I think it was a tattoo. It could have been a really weird bruise, for all I know." She shivered. "He knows who I am now, where I live."
"You'll stay with me," Jack said.
"So there's no way you can identify him if you saw him again?"
She shook her head. "I might recognize his voice, but you know what Long Island accents sound like, they're all the same. I don't think there's a chance in hell that I could ID him. Poor Avery, if she'd just kept her mouth shut."
Rey didn't say it was an incredibly stupid thing to say, even if the woman was drunk. He closed his notebook. "All our canvas turned up was the man booted from the club, who sort of matches your description. We'll try to turn him up, see what's under the rock."
"And if you can't find him, it goes cold?"
"We'll keep trying, Claire, you know that."
"I'm going to have to move," she muttered.
"You don't need to think about that now," Jack said. She looked at him, what did it matter, she thought, if your number was up…she shook her head, then looked at the detectives. She was so fond of Lennie, he was the kind of guy she'd have liked as a father. Rey was wound too tight, too judgmental, but he was a decent guy anyway. She felt they had something else to ask, but Jack was there and she guessed whatever it was, they didn't want Jack to hear it. The hair on the nape of her neck prickled. Address it, she thought, it isn't going to change anything, Avery is still going to be dead, and the image of that lovely head exploding bitchslapped her again. She put her hand to the side of her head, wincing, then she drew a deep breath and faced Lennie.
"Anything else, Lennie?"
Though his eyes were sad, he smiled. "We were getting background on Avery, she was divorced?"
"God, three years ago? That numbskull couldn't find New York if you put him on the Brooklyn Bridge."
"Any recent relationships?"
Claire nodded. "She'd just broken up with someone, it was rather unpleasant, but I don't think you need to look there, Lennie."
"We have to look everywhere, Claire, you know that. What's his name?" Rey jerked his pad out of his jacket.
"Allison Kastner."
"Excuse me?" Rey stopped writing. "A guy named Allison, you said?"
"Rey," Lennie shot him a sideways look. Then he looked at Claire. "I see your point."
Jack leaned forward, hands on his knees. "But what if it did? What if this Allison hired someone to shoot Avery?" He turned to look at Claire. "Did Avery say what was so unpleasant about her breakup?"
"Allison was very jealous, she'd reached the point where she'd slap Avery around, and Avery was not putting up with that. And yes, it's quite likely Allison knew Avery was coming up to see me, she'd know Avery was in New York. That's all I know about Allison Kastner, guys."
Jack was chewing his bottom lip. Claire could feel him thinking, his autonomic functions took on a different rhythm, slowed. The detectives got up, and Claire stood, too, she would walk them to the door. She leaned against the open door, her palm on its back, watching them walk to the elevator. They'd go after Allison now, investigate her, and if she was as crazy as Avery claimed, might easily come looking for Claire. She didn't care.
Jack poured a scotch as she closed the door and turned around. "Want one?" he asked.
"No, thank you." She sat on the couch and picked up her Diet Coke. Jack came back with his drink and sat next to her.
"Tell me about this Allison."
"I don't know much, Jack. Avery said she was nuts, thought she'd turn violent at some point, so she left, she came up here to visit me."
Jack rubbed his bottom lip with his thumb. "It isn't so very hard to find a junkie in New York to blow someone away." He was focused on something across the room. "I think it's a good angle to investigate." Then he looked at Claire, she had pulled into herself again, drawn her knees to her chest, hugging them. "It wouldn't bother me, you know."
She looked at him. "What wouldn't? If you have a question, just ask it."
"All right. Did you sleep with her?"
"In college. We were close, it just seemed a natural extension of that closeness, but it didn't take long before I realized it wasn't my thing. It was hers, though, and she had such an attitude…" her voice trailed off. "She'd date guys, then when they were getting serious, she'd tell them she swung both ways and watch them run." Her forehead touched her knees. "I always told her it was a dangerous game."
"But she didn't mention any recent men?"
"No, she was more interested in hearing about you."
He shrugged a shoulder. "I'm not very interesting."
She turned her head on her knee and looked at him. "Why wouldn't it bother you?"
He seemed caught by surprise, had to think a second to understand her meaning. "Oh. It just wouldn't."
"Are you one of those guys who fantasizes about threesomes?"
He smiled. "No." He reached over and rubbed her neck. "It wouldn't bother me because I know I love you and you love me and no one can get between us."
"Enlightened attitude. A lot of men get very jealous."
He stretched. "I don't own you."
"Do you think her history is going to play into this?"
"No idea." He covered a yawn. "But it's the first place the cops will look."
"And you think they'll look at me as well?"
"No." He reached for her with both hands, lifted her up and into his lap. She turned sideways, drawing her knees up again, a compact fetal position secured in his lap and arms. His cheek pressed against the top of her head, and he closed his eyes, rocking her so gently as to be almost imperceptible, but she felt it. The emptiness stretched before her, a life without Avery Bennett's laughter, cynicism, loyalty and love. Avery had simply been, a given in Claire's life, it was impossible to imagine that life would go on without those phone calls, without that cheerful gremlin's laughter, and yet it would. Claire was one of those rare people who had never lost anyone before, and it made her feel like an imposter when she met with a victim's family, for she did not know, until now, how they felt. If she told Jack this was her first personal death, he'd ask how that was possible, perhaps, but there wasn't much else to say about it. Claire closed her eyes, listening to Jack's heartbeat, letting its constancy lull her to sleep.
000
Thanksgiving with the Gellars. Claire dreaded it, but there were some duties that were inescapable. She'd moved into a new apartment a couple of weeks ago, and Jack was spending most nights there, now he was dressing for Thanksgiving with the Gellars. At least it was informal, she thought, watching him button his oxford shirt while she tied the laces of her Italian boots.
"I hope I got the right wine," she mumbled, Mac was such a wine snob, and he'd been very specific when she asked him what to bring.
Jack buckled his belt and shrugged. "If he doesn't like it, he can open a bottle of his own."
"You ready?"
He nodded. "Guess so. At least the man watches football."
They got the wine and walked down to the car, flurries danced in the air around them. Claire zipped her parka, then cradled the wine bottles in her lap while Jack drove to the Gellars' penthouse overlooking the park. He'd dreaded this day, he knew holidays affected the grieving in strange ways, but Claire seemed to be coping. She still woke screaming in the night a few times a week, but she was emerging into the world again, engaging life, however tentatively. Avery's case was cold, as expected, just another mugging turned murder, no leads, no hope, and Claire wore that burden, too. He knew she'd like to see justice done as a last act for a friend.
The Gellars knew Avery, of course, Jack was interested in how they'd treat their daughter and her grief. He doubted they knew everything about that friendship, but at least they knew it was a deep one that lasted over the years. Claire was tense, too tense, even though these gatherings usually brought tension as part of the deal, and he decided to keep watch over her.
Friends of the Gellars were already there; Jack and Claire came in and were greeted by people who'd known Claire since her childhood. They'd quit looking at Jack as a cradle-robber, but awkward moments still arose. He followed Claire into the kitchen, with the wine, where her mother was bent over the turkey. She looked up and smiled at her only child, pushed the roasting pan back into the oven well, and closed the door, then approached Claire.
A quick dry kiss on the cheek. "How are you, Claire? We were so sorry to hear about Avery."
"I'm fine, Mom. Where should we put the wine?"
"Oh, anywhere. Hello, Jack, how are you?"
"Very well, thank you." He was the same age as Claire's mother, the thought gave him the willies sometimes, almost always when he was nailing Claire and the horrible thought 'you should be with her mother' would rip through his brain. He wondered why the age differential only bothered him when he was with Claire's parents. He put his arm around Claire after depositing the wine on the counter; they leaned against the butcher block and watched her mother focus her attention on a plate of deviled eggs. He glanced at Claire and felt an overwhelming need to kiss her, he satisfied himself with a light kiss on the side of her head.
"Take these in, please, Claire," she said, hoisting the platter and holding it out to her daughter. "I want a quick word with Jack."
Claire rolled her eyes, but took the platter, gave Jack a sympathetic look. She left the kitchen, and Jack looked at Mrs. Gellar - Claire resembled her mother, enough to unsettled him, it was probably the source of those dreadful brain flaps.
"Jack, how is she really doing? I know she and Avery were good friends, it must have been terrible, being there when it happened."
He crossed his arms across his chest. "She has bad days, nights, every now and then. Nightmares. But she's strong, she's coping."
"Did you know she's never known anyone who died before?"
"She told me." He wanted to escape but waited patiently.
"I'm glad she has you." She smiled. "I haven't always, as you know, but I am deeply grateful she has you now." She patted his shoulder. "Go, get a drink, and thank you."
"You're welcome." He walked, rather than ran, out of the kitchen and found Claire in conversation with one of her mother's friends. She looked up when he came in, and her smile was radiant, touching him deeply: Claire Kincaid was happy to see him.
The day went as well as he expected, the food was good, the only bad moment had come just before they left, when, alone with her mother in the kitchen, Claire had said "What do you know about grief and how long it should last? Don't you remember how you fell apart when Dad left, nobody told you to pull yourself together and get over it." Jack went into the kitchen, ready to take her out of there. Her face was flushed, and she took his hand when he stood beside her. "Jack, we need to hit the road," she said.
"Now Claire," her mother said.
"No, Mom, there's nothing more to say. Thank you for dinner."
They'd driven home, in a heavy snowfall, and holed up in Claire's apartment. She was still tense, and when they got inside, she turned to him, hugging him while digging her fingers into his back. He knew that signal. Their lovemaking was always of a different quality when Claire was upset, tense, frustrated - it was raunchier, aggressive, sweaty. He knew what she had yet to discover, that her body could not drive the demons away, that sex would not erase the pain. When she was exhausted, lying across him, he ran his thumb along her spine, an absent gesture of settling. She'd driven the tension and frustration away, but the pain remained, the loss, and that responded to his simple stroke of his thumb, up and down her spine. She fell asleep sprawled along his length, her legs tangled in his, her breathing still ragged, but he'd calmed her enough to get through the night.
000
Claire declined her parents' invitation to Christmas dinner. She and Jack were going away, she said, to visit friends of his from school in the Berkshires. She spoke of looking forward to exploring the Berkshires to her mother, while Jack regarded her as if she'd suddenly sprouted a second head and was thus an amazing curiosity. He was lying on the couch, watching the wild card playoffs, the Bears were actually in it this year, while Claire had played in the kitchen. When the phone rang, she got it, and he became so involved in her story of his friends and their house in the Berkshires that he almost believed it, oh yeah Mom didn't I tell you Jack went to school with Linda Ellerbee? When Claire hung up, she looked at him and shrugged.
"Just couldn't do it, Jack, but I didn't want to hurt her feelings, either."
"Yeah, but Linda Ellerbee?"
Claire laughed. "Just popped out of my mouth, old pal, sorry about that."
He grinned, then got up for another beer. "OK, but if your mother wants to be introduced, it's on you."
"Jack." Claire slipped her arms around his waist as he stood by the refrigerator, moving her chin against his back. "She's never heard of Linda Ellerbee."
000
It was a beautiful spring. Claire dragged Jack to Central Park one Sunday afternoon, it had been a week from hell, with a double homicide and a drug-related massacre of some street dealers; she wanted to go out and play and he by God was coming with her. They walked along the paths, holding hands, watching people, dogs. Claire stopped to admire a painting in progress, the woman working on it glanced up, smiled shyly; Claire glimpsed earpieces and wondered what she listened to as she worked. The memories were becoming sweeter, the pain lessening, but she caught her breath when she saw the painting, it had the same power Avery's had.
"What are you listening to?" she asked the artist.
She was a young black woman, so slender she epitomized the term starving artist, but her smile was dazzling. She pulled the earphones free and held them out. "You've probably never heard of her. Aretha Franklin."
Claire stuck the phones in her ears, and tears filled her eyes as Aretha sang of feeling like a natural woman. She took the earphones out and gave them back, said "Beautiful work," and then looked at the sky, smiling despite the tears in her eyes. "God speaks, Jack," she said, as they walked on.
He nodded, walking with her, amazed at her smile. There was joy in it, and she kept looking up. He realized she was humming the song, low and sweet. She stopped at an empty bench and pulled him down with her, crossing her legs and brushing her thumb against his. She looked at him, leaned over, and kissed him quickly but with a promise embedded.
"It goes on, Jack, life I mean. I think Avery just sent me a message." She wiped her eyes, then examined her fingers. "She's still painting." That joyous smile again, such a rarity over the past months, was blooming. He didn't think she'd gotten a telegram from the beyond from Avery Bennett, but she'd been able to make a connection, and he drew a deep, free breath. Yeah, it was a huge coincidence, but it was perfectly timed. She stood, and he got up with her, putting his arms around her shoulders. She looked up, and he kissed her, if joy had a taste, it was Claire at this moment, when she could believe that her friend still was, still loved her, let her know it was OK to go on. She smiled as he pulled away, and she grabbed his hand.
"Let's go home, Jack." Her smile teased, promised, and he smiled back, walking with her, his long stride an easy one for her to match. Then he heard it, didn't quite believe it, and leaned over a little. He grinned. He was hearing Claire Kincaid sing for the first time and while Aretha needn't worry about the competition, it was a lovely thing to hear, because she was singing it to him, for him, about him, and he would do his best to make her feel like a natural woman.
Thank you, Avery, he thought, thank you for letting her go, for telling her it was time to be free, for giving her back to me.
END