Where True Hope Arrives

How the false truths of the years of youth have passed!

Have passed at full speed like trains which never stopped

There where I stood and waited, hardly aware,

How little I knew, or which of them was the one

To mount and ride to hope or where true hope arrives.

"I am a Book I Neither Wrote nor Read" - Delmore Schwartz

I don't often need to ask myself "Exactly how the hell did I get here?", but this is definitely one of those "Why are we in this basket and where are they taking us?" situations. Well, actually, right now it's more of a "Where are we trudging to?" scenario. I'd be happy for a ride in a basket regardless of the destination, and I know wouldn't argue with that, either.

Getting shoved out of a moving vehicle in the dark has left us both worse for the wear. Trench is limping more by the hour, and watching him struggling along the tracks ahead of me makes me hurt even more than I do anyway.

"Trench, hold up a minute."

He stops with a jolt that makes me think stopping may hurt more than moving. I've been there myself.

"Two ideas, just for your consideration. First, you might think of letting go of just a little of your pride, and leaning on me to ease up the torque on your knee. Second, we need to start thinking about where to hunker down for the night, because it's going to get very, very cold when the sun goes down."

Where are we, you ask? In the desert, somewhere between L.A. and the Mexican border. That's all right, Trench let me know he didn't think that was a helpful answer, either. We're following railroad tracks that run in a northwesterly direction, which in theory should take us back towards L.A.

It's a good indication of how tired and miserable he is that Trench has no immediate comeback for me. When does that ever happen? I step up next to him on the right-of-way, and look into his tired, bruised face. I grasp Trench's wrist, put his arm around my waist and then my arm around his shoulders, and we keep moving. I can't help but wonder how much pain he's in to allow me this much contact. This is a man with a three-foot social distance. He rarely needs to take any action to keep people away from him. It's just there, that Touch Me Not vibe.

"Expecting a Best Western somewhere along the road to nowhere, Orwell?" A good fifteen minutes of silence first, but that's more like the sarcastic Trench I'm accustomed to.

"I'd settle for a livestock shelter, or even a deep enough barrow ditch to act as a windbreak." Not as if anyone will be looking for us at night, at least not here. By now someone must have inquired into Trench's radio silence, so eventually they'll find his car, but I doubt they're likely to figure out the sequence of events, at least not soon.

I know Sgt. Roberts will be out on the street desperately looking for some clue to what's happened to his boss, but right now there's only so much information to be had by anyone other than the people involved. Roberts at least knew enough to have a general idea of what may have happened to us, but it's unlikely he knows enough to do us much good at this point.

If I was in this situation alone, chances are the coyotes would be gnawing on my bones in the not too distant future. People die out here, of exposure and dehydration. It would take Trench a few days to wonder why I didn't answer my phone or invite myself into his office to help myself to his coffee. It's not as though I don't go MIA sometimes. If I had to follow procedure, I'd check in with someone before I went out on a case alone, but of course I don't have to do that, so I don't, which periodically causes Trench to lecture me. I have to admit he has a point, I'm just not admitting that to him.

And anyway, they're likely to be looking for our dead bodies if anything. Who would have thought Conway and his minions would drive like lunatics out into God-knows-where, then simply throw us out into the great unknown, rather than killing us and then tossing us out of the van once they were clear of the city and any chance of needing us as hostages?

We're shuffling our way along, visions of police helicopters dancing in my head.

"Orwell." I'm afraid I was so lost in my own head that he may have called my name more than once. "I'm not good for ... much farther." I hurt in so many places that I at least can't concentrate on any one spot, which may be a blessing. I'm afraid Trench is destined for ugly orthopedic surgery involving Black and Decker power tools, even if a magic coach pulled up at this instant and gave us a ride back to L.A.

Just around the deep fill ahead, I see something on the railroad spur. A boxcar? Not exactly the Best Western, true, but it will have to do. Food and water are out of the question, of course, but fortunately no one confiscated my jacket, and I have a couple of important resources in the pockets.

The main track has been used recently, and eventually a train has to come by, at least that was the thought when we started following it hours ago in the dim grey light of predawn. We're more likely to be spotted by a passing train in the daylight than to hope for anyone from the Santa Monica PD to get a clue where we are.

We make our painful way to the box car. "Hold on, let me check this out." Miserable chronic back pain or no, I've automatically drawn the short straw here, because it'll be hard enough to get Trench up into the car once, never mind in and then back out if we find something is unworkable here.

"I don't smell anything dead, that's a promising sign." No answer. That's not good; we need to pack it in soon before Trench is completely played out.

The fates are kind today, though. I ungracefully heave myself up and inside. Not only do I find a ragged sleeping bag and a couple of tattered blankets, I feel into the dim corners of the boxcar and find someone's stash of bottled water and plastic-wrapped peanut butter crackers. A gallon of Deep Rock is exactly what the doctor would bedding could smell better, but I can live with it. If Trench initially objects to the accommodations, he may change his mind after I break out the goodies.

"This won't be any fun, but at least you won't freeze tonight." We get Trench into the car with less swearing and sweating than I anticipated. I heave myself up again and fall down beside him. He's lying on his back with his arm over his face, his hand shaking.

"Just a little bit further, and we'll have you tucked in for the night, I promise." I arrange the sleeping bag in the corner to get us out of the wind that will make its way in here tonight even with the big sliding doors closed. The really painful part is done, so getting settled is easy by comparison.

With more energy by far than I feel at this point, I say, "As you can see, the Bottled Water Fairy has visited us, and as well, like every well prepared PI, I brought along not only spirits, but serious pain relief." Ah yes, a full travelling flask of bourbon and a bottle of codeine tablets. I'm accustomed to mixing my medications, but I realize I'll have be careful to avoid giving the good lieutenant an overdose. I get as comfortable as I can next to Trench, leaning on my elbow with the comestibles within reach.

"Orwell, do I need to ask if you have any idea what you're doing when mixing narcotics and alcohol?" I'm glad to hear he's rallied enough to be as argumentative as he usually is with me.

"I know it's one of the medical profession's dirty little secrets that these two substances potentiate each other when used in combination. If you're asking if I appreciate the fact that I have a huge tolerance for pain meds and you, as far as I know, do not, the answer is yes, yes, I do." There, I can be a wise acre, too. I've recently been studying with one of the best. "If you're going to get any decent sleep, you'll have to trust me."

"Oh, that's a wonderful thought, Orwell, here I am out here in the ass end of no place, and I have to trust that a junior chemist knows how to mix his potions without accidentally offing me."

Something must shift in his knee, because Trench clenches his teeth and turns pale.

"Here, quit arguing with me for a change, and just take this." I hand him a healthy serving of bourbon and, well, less codeine than I take on a daily basis. After water and crackers, and more bourbon, life has improved all around.

The light starts to fade as we rest and, let's face it, get drunk. And in Trench's case, high. I can see how small his pupils are in the fading light. We talk about not much in particular, the weather, old cases we've worked together, and what have you. We don't discuss where we are, whether we're going to be found anytime soon, why Conway didn't execute our sorry asses. Some people get sleepy and disoriented with narcotics. Some people get chatty, sometimes to an annoying degree. It appears Trench is one of the chatty type. I do know neither of us are as funny as we think we are about now, but that's OK, since we have no audience except each other.

As beat up and hurting and tired as I am, this is as happy as I can remember being in a long, long time.

We have more than enough bourbon left for a wake up shot, which we're certainly going to need in the morning after lying on a wood floor all night. I have the open flask in my hand as I raise up to look at Trench to see if he's asleep, since I haven't heard much from him in the past few minutes. He's awake, but barely.

"Time for some sleep. You look like you're about there already, so goodnight, sweet prince." I lean over and kiss him on the forehead. He doesn't sound nearly as pissy as I might have expected when he says "Orwell, what the hell was that?"

"If it wasn't perfectly clear it was a goodnight kiss, maybe I need to try it again." I screw the cap on the flask and put it to the side. All right, I can see what you're thinking, but I was drunk, too, and if I needed to be, still safely within the realm of excusing myself with "Hey, I was just joking around", and then Trench says softly, "Yes, Orwell, you could do that." He sounds not quite slurred, but more than a bit fuzzy around the edges.

I put my lips on his, and then not only has he not punched me or started limping down the tracks on his own, he's kissing me back. I can't say what I expected, because I don't think I really know, but it wasn't this. We'd be far from the first couple of cops who were pretty much straight, until they fell into bed with each other after a horrendous experience, or with too much alcohol on board, or both. I didn't expect this tenderness, his hands on my face and in my hair. Or that he's a terrific kisser, and that this is not going to stop unless the world comes to an end in the next few minutes.

I gasp and come up for air. I fumble around for the ragged blankets and cover us together on the sleeping bag. I pull up the back of Trench's shirt, which is mostly untucked anyway, and reach under it to stroke his back. He kisses me again, moaning and arching his body towards me. I feel his cock hardening against mine. I've had, well, a thing for Trench for some time now, as you probably figured out. I haven't been with a man since a long time ago in San Diego, and I have no idea what Trench's history is. It's not as though we've ever discussed the topic. I'm still worried that somewhere underneath the pill and the booze, he's going to decide this is a really, really bad idea after all, but clearly his cock is enthusiastically in favor of this new development.

Trench nibbles my neck, my ear, as I unbuckle his belt and unzip his pants. The desert is dark now, and cold, but we're warm enough under the blankets, and his cock is hot in my hand. So far we've managed not to jostle his knee, or he's too high to notice.

"I want to touch you. I've wanted to touch you for so long. I want to make you feel good." If I'm being offered a second chance by the fates, I'm not about to waste it. It's too dark to see much at all now, but I don't need to.

"Please, please." Nearly a whimper, pleading with desire. Again I'm not sure what I thought would happen because I never truly expected to be so fortunate as to be in this situation, but the response I'm getting from Trench, writhing and moaning under my hands, was not anything I dared hope for.

Time passes. It must have, since the last cold light is gone.

My own cock is demanding attention now. I bite Trench's neck gently as he moans into my shoulder and comes. I can't wait for any fumbling now. He wouldn't be the first man I'd bedded who was a klutz when it came to handling another man's cock. I'm working my own cock now, wet with Trench's come in my hand.

He holds my face in his hands, and says softly, "Harry." He's never, ever called me by my first name. I come so hard it hurts. I reach around Trench as far as I can and hold him tightly to me.

My head is spinning, I'm exhausted and drunk, and I think Trench is already asleep. I'm drifting off myself.

Sometime during the night he jerks and mumbles and seems to half rouse. Nightmares, no doubt. It's an occupational hazard. I manage to get him to turn over with his back to me so we can spoon properly. I stroke his hair and murmur the same soothing things I would to a baby or a small animal, and he settles into a deeper sleep.

The rotors are winding down and it's possible to actually hear yourself now. Trench takes his hand off my arm, which feels cool where the air touches it. He doesn't care for helicopters, even this huge SAR chopper, but he'd never admit that, even to me.

Sometime around mid morning, we finally had train traffic. The Burlington Northern engineer looked bemused at the sight of two people in the middle of, in Trench's words, the ass end of no place, waving frantically at him. Fortunately he did exactly what he needed to do, and contacted his dispatcher. Sometime later, and it did feel like much later, a foreman in a hi-rail truck arrived to see if he could get this situation under control. The large derailment he told us about, and the time necessary to clear it enough to open the track explained the lack of traffic on what should have been a busy route.

It was a genuine bitch kitty to get Trench upright and out of the boxcar. Half a pill and a generous dose of booze helped, but don't let anyone tell you that major orthopedic injuries are not excruciating.

I can see Roberts in the group of people clustered outside the safety barrier, and even from here I can tell he's never been so glad to see anybody in his whole life. I'd like to think a little bit of that is directed towards me, but truly I doubt much of it is, and actually, that's perfectly OK with me. I understand how dedicated he is to Trench, and I know at some point he had to have been in fear of us both being dead. The ER gurney is waiting, and Trench shakes his head as the ground crew opens the door.

"I'm not in need of a ride, but thank you for the offer, ladies and gentleman." The tall lady with a ponytail who I suppose must be a flight nurse turns toward Roberts and makes the universal sign for "OK, now what do you want me to do?" I think they've already discussed the likelihood of Trench not being the most cooperative patient they've ever had. She looks to me like someone who could make a very convincing argument for doing things The Official Nurse Way, even with Trench, but no doubt Roberts has advised her against trying. I lean out and wave him toward us.

Trench grasps my arm and pulls me away from the door. "We're going to talk. Noon tomorrow at Spinelli's?"

"You're being awfully optimistic about being somewhere other than a hospital bed by tomorrow."

"Welcome back, Lieutenant, Mr. Orwell!" Sgt. Roberts is grinning and radiating good humor. He's thought this over and planned for it, because first he gets someone from the crew to help him with getting my feet firmly on the ground, then Roberts and I help Trench out of the chopper.

"Smile for your fans, we're on TV!" I wave at the media with my free hand as we make our slow, painful way towards the ER, the ground crew and their gurney following us at a respectful distance.

Being processed by the hospital and the official law enforcement entities that feel the need to debrief us before I've even had an opportunity to pee takes much less time for me than it does for Trench. I don't have much more than flesh wounds, given that I was bounced out the back end of a moving vehicle. And I'm not employed by any police department, so it appears that anything I have to say about the situation is of merely minor interest to them. Trench is only in pain, and hungry, thirsty, and out of sorts, not dying and being hustled into surgery, so I know he has to answer a seemingly endless stream of annoying questions before the powers that be will take their notebooks and tape recorders and go on their merry way.

I consider trying to find some way to see him before I leave, but I realize in all this police and medical chaos, all I'm going to do is draw attention to myself. I trust Roberts will do all he can for him. Trench said tomorrow, so tomorrow it will be.

I debate with myself on my way home, after being reunited with my car, thanks to a lift from the hospital security patrol. Was it me he really wanted, or was this just another version of "Wow, we sure were wasted!"?

I could have slept for the next two days or more, if I didn't have an important appointment on Wednesday. I arrive at Spinelli's a few minutes before noon and walk into the lounge. Of course Trench is there ahead of me, perched on a bar stool with a glass filled with amber liquid and ice in front of him, and a cane hanging over his arm. If that's something stronger than iced tea, he's breaking his own inflexible rule of never drinking in public.

I wave and gesture for him to wait for me. I stop at the desk to complete some business, and return to the lounge. He's just downing the last of whatever he was drinking.

"Here AMA, no doubt? How's that working for you so far?"

"Surgery in two days for something that sounds complicated - a torn ACL, I believe the surgeon said."

"So Roberts will be looking for another racquetball partner for the time being."

"Volunteering to fill in, Orwell?" Right, you smart ass. The last time I let myself get talked into that, I was sorry for days.

I realize I don't want to stand here at the bar and talk about the sort of things we can safely discuss in front of the bored young bartender and the few lounge customers. I show Trench the key in my hand, and say quietly, "Spinelli owes me dearly in return for a very large favor, and he's always happy to help me out when he can. We have a room, a bottle of single malt whisky on ice, and room service any time we're ready for it. Police business, I told him." Trench snorts and rolls his eyes. I know he regards Spinelli as one of my more questionable acquaintances.

He stands up with the aid of the cane, then puts it over his arm, and reaches out his other hand to me and takes my arm. He's not leaning as heavily on me as I expected he would need to do.

He's bruised, scraped, and fatigued, and I'm not much better. I wish we could just get in bed together and forget everything else for now ….

I enjoy Spinelli's place. Old and luxurious. The room is on the mountain view side. It is a breathtaking view, but I want the darkness of closed drapes. Trench immediately sits down at the table, so he's not moving as well as he'd like the world to think. I pour us two drinks and hand one to him.

"To survival?" I propose with my glass lifted. We touch glasses, and I'll admit to gulping my drink. My nerves are catching up to me at this point, even though at the same time I'm so goddamn glad to see Trench, there's nowhere else I want to be.

I keep seeing us in Conway's control, Trench spattered with someone else's blood, standing at the business end of a shotgun with his hands over his head. I'm usually more pragmatic than this, but I remember thinking if we both get out of this mess alive, every day from here on out will be a gift to us from the universe.

I pull a chair around at the table so I'm facing Trench at an angle. He finishes his drink as I sit down, and looks away from me and across the darkened room.

"Orwell … I'm not sure what to say to you. If I thought what happened Monday night was just one of those encounters that we all know happened but never acknowledge, I wouldn't have asked you here to talk to me today. I don't regard our intimacy casually, because as you should know by now, I'm not a casual person."

"The truth would be a good start."

"The truth? I thought I was telling you the truth. Personal relationships are difficult for me, Orwell. My first wife told me I wasn't fit to live with normal human beings, and I often suspect she was right, especially since my second marriage was no more successful than the first. I'm not entirely unfamiliar with men in a sexual sense, although it's been what seems like a lifetime ago. Not since the police academy."

I'm afraid to move, afraid he'll stop talking. This is more truly personal information than Trench has given me over how ever long we've known each other now. He gestures at me with his empty glass and I finally take a breath. I get up to pour two drinks, and sit down.

"I don't know where you've come from as far as your own sexual history, since we've never talked about it, but I assume you're not inexperienced with men, either. What I don't understand is what you would possibly want with me beyond one night, especially in view of what I've seen of your personal life since you've been in Santa Monica."

Oh shit, here it comes. It's 1975, and I'm still going to make excuses for my, shall we say, sexual freedom. Go ahead, Trench, be a judgemental ass, it's not as though you haven't had lots of practice.

Now he's looking at me instead off into the darkened room.

"It appears that you could have any woman you want, but from anything I've seen or heard, most of them don't seem to stay around for more than a month or so. The so-called 'stewardess nest' next door to you apparently is to your liking, and believe me, I have overheard tales of debauchery from the cops who choose to join you at your drunken soirees. To be completely truthful, since that's what you asked me for, I hope you don't think those people are your friends, because I'm quite certain most of them are out for whatever advantage they can gain for themselves, the men and women alike."

"Trench, I have no question that if the circumstances were reversed, you'd tell me to mind my own fucking business, that you'll screw whoever you choose, and drink as much as you please, the second point of which, by the way, you seem to be doing one helluva job of recently."

How did we start going down this path? Why are we in this basket anyway?

"Orwell, I really don't think -"

"No, oh no you don't - don't you shake your head and give me that look!" Now I'm seriously fed up with Trench's bullshit. He has no idea how much I humor him, none.

"There's lot I could say to you right now, Trench, but since I'm not quite so self-important as you are, let me leave it at this, and please believe me when I tell you I do admire you more than you can imagine for what you do and how good you are at your job. Do you believe your last dying thought will be 'Gee, I sure wish I'd spent MORE GODDAMN TIME AT WORK!'?"

We're both on our feet now, and all things considered, I would not have believed either of us could move that fast.

Life is really such a dreadful mess sometimes. I do some of the slow relaxed breathing that Holly the stew showed me. I know I've gone over the line now, and if Trench is going to walk out on me, he'll do it soon. Well, at least I'm well supplied with booze for a private pity party if that's the way this plays out.

Trench has a deer-in-the-headlights look I've never seen from him before.

"Listen, Trench … I'm sorry. I'm sorry. Please sit down with me. Please." Then I tell myself to do more of Holly's breathing thing.

We sit down slowly. The atmosphere feels like an armed standoff. Don't look anywhere except right at the other guy, and don't blink, don't flinch.

It's hard to resist the urge to be contentious, since that seems to be the basis for whatever kind of mess you would call this relationship.

"Trench, believe me when I tell you nothing that happened between us out there in the wilds is anything I regard as casual. You're completely wrong if you think I'd risk my friendship with you just to get lucky."

Breathe now, just breathe.

"And why would I have any reason to believe you would want me, even for one night? I mean, Jesus, Trench, it's not as though you ever gave me any real clue that you were interested. No, wait, please, don't argue with me, not yet anyway. Can you just hold that thought for now, whatever it is?"

"I wasn't sure at first whether I had committed a serious tactical error on Monday night, and I'm afraid I'm still not really sure. I was willing to take a risk, though, after I was hit again with something I already knew, which is that any day either of us could leave a scene in a body bag. And I'll be goddamned if I'm going to let that happen without knowing for sure whether or not you could possibly care about me the way I care about you."

I feel my heartbeat slowing. Start counting, he's going to be out of here in ten, nine, eight, seven ….

He stands up slowly, leaning on the cane more heavily than before. "No, Orwell, don't move, I'm not going anywhere, and I'm not completely crippled yet." He pulls open the drapes covering the sliding doors that open onto a small balcony. The storm front that was developing when I drove up has grown into impressively large, dark thunderheads. Extreme weather is common here, but this looks noteworthy even for southern California.

"The place I'm calling home these days has a nice view and a balcony. I think I watch the weather much more than I watch the TV. You really ought to step over here and see this." He slides the glass door open, and the room fills with that fresh, wild smell that moves in ahead of a thunderstorm.

I walk up behind Trench and put one arm around him He reaches back to take my hand and pulls my other arm around him. God, he feels good.

"So can I assume that now you sit on the balcony with your drink, and brood while you watch the weather, instead of drinking and brooding in front of the TV?"

"More or less the way you drink and brood while you watch the waves roll in, Orwell."

The thunder rolls in the distance, and those sheets of lightning that look like ferns are moving closer. It is a beautiful weather show. I turn my head to nuzzle Trench's neck, and he leans his head against mine with a sigh.

"I hope you know how very much I do care about you. And if you didn't, you do now. You must know I'm your friend, and I would never have allowed you as close to me as we were on Monday night if I didn't trust you on an intimate basis. That's not an easy thing for me."

I would kill or die for this man. I have a lump in my throat, and I can't say anything except, "Thank you. Thank you for trusting me."

The thunder cracks so loudly it makes my ears ring, and the lightning covers the entire sky visible from here. When the lightning stops briefly, the sky is so dark it looks like night has fallen.

"Trench, you're supposed to be resting that knee. We can sit down and still see the light show." I step away from him, and pull the love seat around a bit so we can face the balcony. We settle in, and he takes my hand and holds it in both of his. I do watch the waves at home, but I can't remember the last time I was patient enough to watch a weather front moving through. The rain should hit any time now.

"Harry. What do you need from me? Where are we going?" Quiet but very intense.

"Well, I think I had in mind something like what we used to call 'going steady.'"

"I don't have the lifestyle of your crowd of cops and stews. I don't share. Do you understand? I've been called jealous, controlling, possessive, and worse, but I'm afraid that's me, Orwell. Can you live with that?"

"I not only can, I promise to."

The rain goes from a few drops to a flood within seconds. I can't hear anything except the rain imitating Niagara Falls.

Twitterpated. "You're twitterpated, Harry! " my mother would have said. And she would have been absolutely right.

Apparently Trench and I have the same thought at the same moment, because then we're wrapped around each other and kissing like a couple of kids at a drive-in movie, and to hell with the rest of the world. It won't be an easy road in more ways than I'm sure we have any idea, but right now, who cares.

"Headlining local news tonight, alleged drug dealer David Conway has been returned to the US after extradition from Costa Rica. Conway fled the US two weeks ago after the murder of local businessman Allen Clark, and the kidnapping of private detective Harry Orwell and Lt. K.C. Trench of the Santa Monica Police Department. According to information from an anonymous source, David Conway is suffering from advanced pancreatic cancer, and his medical records indicate he has only 'weeks to months' of life remaining. No information is available at this time regarding whether Conway will go to trial for any of the charges filed against him."

your document here...