Part Three
She wasn't expecting it. She should have been. God knew when she put John Reese in that car she didn't anticipate ever seeing him alive again. Still, she'd been certain she'd seen him so damn many times since then, a hint of a shadow rounding a corner, a tall form ducking through a door just as she turned around. Fusco thought it was funny, but she kept hoping, kept trying to catch a glimpse of a man she knew was probably long cold.
And still, when her captain called her into his office, when she saw the unwelcome face of Mark Snow, she felt her stomach drop. She'd known, but still she hadn't expected it. She wasn't prepared for it. And though she heard the somber voice reciting the words, though she saw the barely concealed glee in the man's eyes, she couldn't believe it. She knew it was true and tried to deny it all the same.
Those remains that had been found had been positively identified as John Reese. The case could be closed, the warrants forgotten, the man erased. Snow was only delivering the news in person for the benefit of a reaction, she knew, and so she refused to give it to him. She gave the men a curt nod and promised the captain she'd finish up the paperwork by the end of the week.
The captain reminded her there were lots of other cases, lots of living perps for her to chase.
Snow just watched silently, carefully studying her face as though he was looking for her to reveal a secret.
It made her wonder if maybe he wasn't quite as convinced as he'd been leading others to believe. But the hope was short lived, dying in her mind as painfully as Reese undoubtedly had. She'd seen him shot twice. She'd seen the puddles of blood he left in his wake. She'd seen his white pallor and face soaked with sweat even as he shivered. He'd already been in shock when he'd stared at her that last time. He was dying and he knew it and it was her fault and he knew that too.
Shoving the feelings away, she ignored Snow and fixed her eyes on her captain. "I forgot to tell you, I have to take my son to a doctor's appointment so I need to leave early." Not waiting for a response, she turned and left. She didn't know how long she'd be able to keep her tears at bay, but she knew she didn't want to be in the precinct when they started to fall.
She stopped at her desk to grab her purse, barely glancing at Fusco. His continually joking friends scattered with one look. She swallowed hard, willing her voice not to crack as she delivered the news. "They found his body. He's dead."
Fusco's smile disappeared. "Your guy? Really? He's dead?" Although he generally seemed to only listen to her with half an ear, Carter found something redeeming in the way the man looked honestly saddened.
She nodded, hating that she'd had to breathe life into those words, into the idea she despised. "Yeah, the CIA's sure."
Fusco dropped into his chair and let out a breath it seemed he'd been holding a long time. "I guess if the CIA's sure that's good enough for me." His eyes dropped away from his partner, seeming to linger on the doll he'd told her had been a gift from his son. "Can't believe anything could kill that son of a bitch. Thought he was Superman."
"Guess they found some Kryptonite."
The words rolled through her head as she drove home, trying to pretend nothing was wrong. But it was. She was the Kryptonite. She'd been his weakness. He'd trusted her and she'd lead him to his death. She stopped at a liquor store on her way. She was going to need quite a lot of alcohol to drown the memories. She wasn't sure there was enough alcohol on Earth to drown the guilt.
She texted her son as she rode the elevator to their apartment, finding it easier to lie in writing message than to his face, telling him she was working late and he should stay with his grandmother for the evening. Since her husband's death, she'd devoted herself to being a perfect role model for her son and making sure he was brought up right. Therefore, she couldn't have him around her when she had every intention of getting shit-faced. She fiercely hoped Taylor would never have the occasion to feel so absolutely horrible that drinking himself unconscious was a valid decision. She decided Taylor was too smart to make the sort of stupid mistake she had and that comforted her for a moment.
As soon as she got inside, she wasted no time. She headed straight for the kitchen, pulled out a tumbler, and filled it halfway with vodka fresh from the bottle. She only spent a moment contemplating adding orange juice to mask the taste, but decided against it. She didn't deserve the pleasure of better taste. She deserved to suffer and gagged down a large mouthful. After forcing down half the glass against her taste buds' wishes, she paused long enough to relocate to her bedroom. There was always a chance that Taylor might need a change of clothes or a book for school and might stop by to grab it. Passing out on the couch wasn't an option.
She chugged the rest of that glass and set it on the bedside table as she emptied her pockets. Her badge and gun were first. Then her phone, a few dollars, and some receipts joined them. Then she kicked off her heels and shrugged off her jacket. Changing into pajamas was too much effort. Instead she sat down on the bed in her jeans and sweater and switched on the TV with the remote for some company.
Three glasses later, the TV was annoying her and she turned it off. The winter days were short and darkness came early. All of her life she'd been afraid in the dark. Not of it, but in it. Being a woman, being a cop, she knew all too well the sorts of things that lurked in the darkness. For a few months there, though, she'd known there was someone lurking out there who wasn't going to hurt her. She pursued him as a criminal, that was the only valid reason she had to chase him, but no criminal investigation had anything to do with why Reese had been such an interest of hers.
There was something about him, something dark and mysterious and intoxicating and addictive. She'd known it the first time she'd looked at him, sizing up the man she thought was an old, drunken homeless freak, catching his hooded eyes and recognizing there was far more to him than he wanted anyone to believe. When she spoke to him in the following months, she tried to reconcile his incredible voice with the filthy mess who'd been at the police station that night and had failed every time.
No wonder. When she'd finally gotten a good look at him, saw his face uncovered by the salt and pepper beard, she realized the voice that fairly dripped sex appeal matched perfectly with his chiseled features.
And after their interactions, after the tender way he'd stroked her hand when she'd been shot, after all those months, she didn't bother to pretend she didn't feel a connection to him. She'd been drawn to him, and though it was now far too late to realize it, she hadn't really given a shit about wanting to lock him up. She'd just wanted to interact with him, to be near him, to know him.
Wanting to kick herself, she poured back another half a glass. She couldn't get to know him because he was dead and he was dead because she'd made him that way, the same as if she'd pulled the trigger herself. She was responsible for his death. That was a pretty fucking unbearable burden she'd have to live with.
She recalled the way he'd been living on the streets and drinking his way through life when she'd first met him. She wondered if she wouldn't wind up the same way, trying to annihilate her memories or her liver, whichever gave first. But she had a family. Not just people to take care of, but people who would take care of her. She hated that Reese hadn't had that comfort. Sure, that guy had been there to haul him away when he was too sick to escape on his own, but she didn't know if he was really a friend.
Maybe it had been loneliness that made him reach out to her. Maybe he'd thought she would be his friend.
Damn it. She didn't want to wind up a miserable, angry drunk sobbing into her glass like her father before he died, but there she was, lying in the dark, sobbing into the bottle since she'd grown too lazy to bother with a glass anymore.
It didn't take much more of the vodka to render her unconscious, the tears drying on her face as she slept.