Title: Jack Seeks to Settle the Score
Content Warnings: Language, domestic violence and implied violence.
Spoilers: None
Summary: 'Selling your soul to the devil, O'Neill,' he thought, but he had considered that before making the call to Carter's fiance. The devil probably owned his ass already, so what difference did it make?
Disclaimer: Stargate SG-1 and its characters are the property of Stargate (II) Productions, Showtime/Viacom, MGM/UA, Double Secret Productions, and Gekko Productions. This story is for entertainment purposes only and no money exchanged hands. No copyright infringement is intended. The original characters, situations, and story are the property of the author. This story may not be posted elsewhere without the consent of the author. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author. Copyright © 2008 Su Freund
Author's Note:
1. Thanks very much Lynette (Flatkatsi) for reading this over and making those useful comments and suggestions that have improved on my original version of this chapter!
2. Patti pointed out that Brightman's failure to report a case of violence/abuse in chapter 8 is very likely a criminal act, as it is in many US states. I realized this was a possibility, which is why I emphasized what she was doing was wrong, but I have not found any absolute confirmation that this is the case in Colorado. Therefore, I do not explicitly state Brightman's actions are a criminal act in this story.
3. STC commented that the phrase "going to the can" is US teenage slang and of low class use. I totally accept that as a British author I might sometimes get UK/US English usage wrong (thank heavens for beta readers and US mail buddies to help me out with that!). Other sources assure me this slang phrase is in common usage in the US and it is feasible that military personnel would use it. On the basis that we are dealing with the military in SG stories, the slang used in fan fiction could probably be far more vulgar. I apologize if I have upset STC by using this phrase, although I doubt it will be the last time I do.
4. Thanks to Lynda for a notion about zats, which I refer to in this chapter.
5. Last but by no means least - thanks to all of you who have read and sent feedback for this story, I really appreciate it!
Jack Seeks to Settle the Score
Pete Shanahan was pissed. Seething internally, he sipped his latte and waited. Occasionally the detective glanced at the coffee shop door, followed by his watch, and softly sighed with impatience. Then he looked at the newspaper that lay sprawled out on the table in front of him, apparently reading in a casual manner. In fact, he neither read the paper nor felt particularly nonchalant. Pete just wanted it to seem that way.
Jack O'Neill was late for their appointment. It had been his idea to arrange this meeting, so Pete thought his tardiness was inappropriate and impolite. The cop could not envisage many circumstances in which he might instigate a meeting with O'Neill. If he ever did, Pete believed he would not be rude enough to turn up late. Consequently, he was pissed.
Shanahan kept thinking he did not have all day. He had work to do. Important work that he could probably carry out more effectively without interruptions to his day from Sam's commanding officer. Pete was not even certain he liked the man much anyway. He kept wondering how much time he should wait for the general to show up. Looking at his watch yet again, he sighed for the umpteenth time. Twenty minutes and counting. Talk about discourteous.
Pete had to admit he was very curious about this meeting, as well as somewhat on edge. What the hell could O'Neill want with him? He'd given it a great deal of thought and could only come to one conclusion. It had to be something to do with Sam. What else was there? Consequently, he was worried.
Sam herself had not given him any cause to worry about her, but here was O'Neill, bold as brass, apparently wanting to make nice with him. That was… odd, way off beam. His cop sense told him something was very wrong.
Just as Pete was thinking he would drink up and go, O'Neill sauntered in looking cool as ice. The detective watched closely as the man spotted him and walked over. He could not fail to notice that O'Neill seemed a little peaky. If you looked carefully, his skin tone had a slightly grey pallor under the tan and his facial features seemed to have additional lines etched into them. Shanahan was looking carefully. He was a cop and trained to observe.
As he pulled out a chair from under the table and sat down, O'Neill grunted a greeting.
"You're late," Pete commented coolly.
"So, sue me," O'Neill retorted in a snarky manner that made Pete bristle.
"You asked for this meeting," he snapped back.
Gesticulating in a conciliatory way, Jack sighed. "You're right, I'm sorry. Traffic," he explained.
Saved further comment by the swift appearance of a waitress, Jack ordered an extra strong blend of expresso, which his companion noted and added to his observations and assumptions about the general's current state of mind.
"Want another?" he asked the cop, pointing to the near empty cup, but Pete declined. Although he had almost finished the latte, he did not wish to feel more hyper than he already was. This meeting made him jittery enough without more caffeine to help him along.
O'Neill said nothing, which kind of irked Pete and increased his agitation. He had not anticipated the strong silent treatment from a man who had called and asked for this meeting. So, once the waitress brought their order and they had some privacy, he bluntly broke the uncomfortable silence.
"What's this about, O'Neill? Sam?"
"No," Jack responded tersely.
Shanahan looked at him with surprise. He'd been expecting a confrontation with O'Neill about Sam. Pete wasn't stupid. He knew the man had some feelings for his fiancee, and that there was a special relationship between Sam and her CO. He was not sure exactly what those feelings were and Pete believed what Sam said to him about comradeship and years working together as a team. Or at least he tried not to contemplate that there might be anything more to it.
Cops could develop similarly close relationships with their partners sometimes, so Pete got that. Nevertheless, O'Neill made him feel uneasy, as if he should be worried about something. So if the man did not want to see him about Sam, then what?
'A clam would be more open than this guy,' Pete thought wryly when O'Neill finally told him why he had called. The man was succinct to say the least. He simply asked the cop to help him find someone he wanted found. However, O'Neill was entirely unforthcoming about why he wanted to find this person, and why he was asking Pete to help him. The cop wondered what the general was not telling him. Probably plenty.
"Okay, so why can't you use your own resources to find this Rodgers guy?" Pete asked, needing more information about O'Neill's motives before he could consider doing the favor he asked. "You have people at the SGC who could do that don't you? And why do you want to find him?"
Jack eyed him with a glare that might have had some men either cowering in a corner or preparing for a fight. However, Shanahan was neither of those types of men. He was not easily rattled and certainly not quick to get into a brawl unless he had to. He knew better. O'Neill was unnerving and potentially deadly, Pete thought, but he had dealt with some truly bad assed, tough guys in his time.
"I don't want the SGC or the Air Force involved," Jack replied, failing to answer Pete's other nagging question.
"And why's that?" Jack did not respond and Shanahan gave him a withering look.
"Okay, we're done here," he said. "I'm not using police resources to trace this Peter Rodgers guy unless you tell me more, like why you want to find him."
He made a move to get up and Jack knew he had to back down, or at least to some extent. He badly needed this favor he was asking. Shanahan had contacts he lacked and could get the required information far quicker than he could on his own.
O'Neill knew he was playing a risky game. Sam's fiance was a cop and O'Neill needed this favor to stay off the record. As it was with Doctor Brightman, he realized it was asking a lot. The Doc had crossed a line for him and could be in all kinds of trouble if anyone found out.
Her failure to report such a crime was probably a crime in itself. Jack was not certain about this because laws vary from State to State and he was no expert. Whatever, the debt he owed Brightman was substantial because he thought it likely she could get into trouble with someone somewhere about what she had done – or failed to do. Jack would protect her. No one would ever find out. Catherine was not telling, and he certainly wasn't either.
Now, he was counting on the mutual connection with Carter, and that Shanahan would value his indebtedness. It was wrong and he knew it, and not only because he felt guilty about using Sam's friendship. Jack was not a legal genius or anything, but he figured he was probably asking Shanahan to commit a crime too, or certainly to break the rules in a big way and participate in a potential criminal act.
Shanahan could also get into a whole heap of trouble, but O'Neill had used far worse methods to attain his goals. If the cop helped, he would know what he was doing, just as Brightman had. Eyes wide open. O'Neill was not trying to dupe anyone.
"It's personal," Jack retorted. Pete nodded but said nothing, forcing Jack to continue. "It's Catherine."
"Catherine? Who's she?"
"I met her at your engagement party. Don't think you know her, though. She's my girlfriend." Jack winced at the use of that term. Girlfriend did not sound quite the right word to describe his relationship with Catherine. Lover? Partner? Whatever. Shanahan got the point. Still he said nothing, waiting for Jack's explanation.
When it came, that explanation was brief and to the point. Only the salient facts. Typical O'Neill. Pete sat back in his chair and pondered. He got it, sure he did. Although he did not say so directly, O'Neill was looking for vengeance, or restitution. Something. Anything. Pete understood that and knew he might feel the same way if anything like this happened to Sam, but he was a cop. He should uphold the law, not aid and abet the breaking of it, which is what he assumed O'Neill intended. On the other hand…
"You should report this," Pete commented, grimly. "That's what cops are for."
"Yeah, real hot on domestic violence," Jack replied tartly.
"I don't like guys who beat up women." Shanahan's tone was very serious and Jack detected some anger. The man was genuine. "In fact, I can't stand 'em. Scum of the earth."
"Now that's something we can agree on," Jack said with a wry smile. "But Catherine doesn't want cops involved. It's complicated."
"Ah! I see." Pete nodded thoughtfully. "These cases are always complicated. But we can't do much for her if she won't file a report, or testify."
"She'd probably kill me if she knew I was talking to a cop."
Shanahan nodded again, obviously contemplating the situation Jack had outlined so succinctly yet tellingly. "So, tell me something," he said after a lengthy pause. "If I get this information am I going to be helping you commit a felony?"
"You really want to know?" Jack replied, looking the cop firmly in the eye. Pete noted his steely and closed expression. "Come on, Shanahan. You might be a cop but do you really expect me to believe you are whiter than white?"
Pete grinned, and then chuckled. "No. But then I'm guessing you aren't either."
"I've done a few things I shouldn't be proud of, sure."
"You and me both, pal. You know I should report this, don't you? I'll be putting my neck on the line if I do this. And you… are you sure you want to take a chance on screwing with the Air Forces' reputation, General O'Neill? It's one hell of a risk."
He emphasized Jack's rank deliberately; a reminder of what O'Neill had to lose. Jack did not need to be reminded. He would take his chances, but would Shanahan? He did not respond to the question, but his unwavering expression gave Pete his answer.
"And if I help, what's in it for me?" Pete asked, steadily holding the older man's gaze.
Jack stared at him long and hard. "How about that I owe you a huge honkin' favor?" he suggested, hoping this was enough because he did not have much else he could offer that Shanahan might want. 'Selling your soul to the devil, O'Neill,' he thought, but he had considered that before making the call to Carter's fiance. The devil probably owned his ass already, so what difference did it make?
After some deliberation, Pete inclined his head in a way that seemed to indicate agreement. He thought this could be an extremely useful marker to hold. "Okay," he said. "But if something happens to this guy, I'll know where to start looking. I'm not totally screwing with my career just to do you a favor."
Jack merely shrugged. Shanahan could look all he liked but that did not mean he would find evidence, did it? He could know, but he would probably never prove anything. After all, if Shanahan helped him find Rodgers, he could hardly tell any of his fellow officers about it after the fact, could he? He would be an accessory to any crime Jack might commit so, as Shanahan had said, his own neck would be on the line.
The idea of borrowing a zat from the SGC had crossed Jack's mind. Pete Rodgers, a dark alley and a zat. It could be an efficient plan. No evidence, no Rodgers – ever! It still might come to that, but Jack leaned toward a hands on approach. He knew he should not use his training for his own purposes, but some people deserved a little pain and anguish in their lives. His conscience would be clear. No regrets. No guilt.
O'Neill believed the payback for this favor would probably be huge, but so worth it. He hoped Shanahan had the intelligence to use that debt wisely. Figured he would. Carter would never marry a guy with no brains.
"I'm not asking you to. Carter won't know anything about this, right?"
"Are you kidding?" Shanahan looked horrified at the very idea.
"Just checking. I don't want the SGC involved."
"Trying to protect them, huh? Very commendable, general. You think I'd want her to know?"
"Probably not."
"Shake on it?" Pete asked, holding out his hand. Jack returned the grasp firmly and Shanahan removed his cell phone from his jacket, making a couple of calls to set the wheels in motion.
"Will it take long?" O'Neill asked.
Pete shrugged, not able to answer that question with any accuracy. "I'll be in touch."
After watching Shanahan's retreating back disappear, Jack threw some money on the table and left. Catherine had a friend with her, but he had to return. He had to be there for her.
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Catherine seemed to be okay… ish. She tried to be her normal self but Jack saw right through it. She was more subdued and introspective. She still had not revealed the details of what had happened and Jack could relate to her reticence, even if it also drove him nuts. Her insistence that she was fine gave him cause to wonder. He must drive his team crazy when he continued to insist he was fine although they knew he was not.
In terms of injuries, Catherine ached and was stiff, while the black and blue tones of bruising covered vast swathes of her body. One side of her face had swollen up and looked very painful. As with all these things, it would seem worse before it got better. Doc Brightman appeared to think she was doing all right.
Jack worried most about what might be going on inside her head. That was way harder to get a handle on. He figured Rodgers could probably have done far more physical damage if he had wanted, even though Catherine tried to fight him off. So, Jack wondered if her ex's true purpose had more to do playing a psychological game than causing physical harm. That is what bullies do, right? Rule through terror. Occasionally, they simply need to keep the terror fresh in the mind by showing they mean it.
Jack did not leave Catherine's apartment for two days. She seemed to have enough food in the place to fend off a siege, so he did not even need to go shopping. He stayed close and was there when she needed him. When she insisted on time alone, he occupied himself with something else, refusing to leave her on her own at the scene of her attack.
Then he persuaded her to call a friend and she agreed. Mary Jones was a fellow art tutor at the college and the two women were relatively close. She appeared a little older than Catherine and a friendly, warm kind of woman. Jack hoped Catherine might confide in her what she would not reveal to him. Women could be like that, which was fair enough in his book, albeit frustrating.
Mary's presence also gave him the opportunity to escape, to contact Shanahan and meet him without feeling bad about leaving Catherine.
When he returned to the apartment, Catherine was sitting alone on her couch seemingly reading a book. She welcomed him with a smile and Jack approached, returning the greeting with an affectionate peck on the top of her head.
"Where's Mary?" he asked.
"Gone home."
Jack's initial ire quickly turned to concern. "For crying out loud, you shouldn't be left by yourself right now."
Catherine stared at him silently for a moment and then she indicated he should come and sit next to her on the couch. Jack acquiesced. She knew he was unhappy that Mary had left before he got back, but she had insisted her friend go. Catherine wanted some quiet time with no one around to make a fuss. She needed that time to herself.
At first, she went to survey the mess in her studio, which was not as bad as she imagined. It was obvious Jack had spent some time clearing up. To be honest, she was relieved. There was still some work to do, and it would take a while to sort out her paints and equipment in the way she wanted. However, Jack had done pretty well and tamed the worst of the chaos.
He had stacked her vandalized art works in a corner and these she would mourn. Something of Catherine went into each of them and the loss was painful. No doubt, this was a willful act designed to cause grief. The damage Pete had inflicted on Jack's portrait was particularly devastating, perhaps prompted by jealousy, but certainly hatred. The painting meant a lot to Catherine just as the man himself did. It was part of them and had brought them closer. Now it was in shreds.
Jack might be right that she could paint another. She could paint all of them again if she wished. But they were irreplaceable because the spirit and inspiration of Catherine that each one contained was unique.
As she examined the studio, Catherine realized she did not have the heart, energy or physical ability to sort it out right then. The pain from Pete's beating hampered her movements, the loss of her work was depressing, and the room brought back too many nightmarish images of her ex-husband's attack. Therefore, she returned to the living room, found a book and started to read. She hoped to wallow in fantasy to distract her from those horrendous events. It worked. For a while.
Now, she placed a hand on Jack's lower thigh and gave it a small squeeze. "You can't stay here forever," she said. Jack opened his mouth to speak but she got in first. "I'm used to living alone."
He regarded her seriously for a while before speaking. "I don't like leaving you on your own. I thought you were afraid he would come back. I'm worried about you."
"I know, but this place is secure enough. I let him in, remember. He didn't break down the door or anything. I can't let Pete terrorize me into changing my life. I let him get away with that for way too long already." She took Jack's hand in hers. Catherine knew he cared about her. She appreciated his concern, but she had her own life to lead and so did Jack.
"You don't need to do this by yourself," he said, leaning in to kiss her cheek lightly.
"Yes I do. I need for you to go home. I need to take my life back." The words tumbled out more bluntly than she intended and Jack was clearly shocked and hurt. She captured his eyes, hoping to make her meaning clearer, and started to stroke his hand with her thumb.
"I can't just leave…" he started to reply with a sinking heart.
"I don't want you to take this the wrong way, Jack. I know you're here for me. So if you go I'm not truly alone, am I? I can call you. You can come over. I've been here before and I got through it. I'm fine."
He looked disbelieving. "You say that, but…"
"I fought back," she interrupted. "I never did that while I was still with Pete. I just plucked up enough courage to leave is all. That I fought back means a lot to me. You couldn't possibly understand, but I'll be okay. I need it to be this way, Jack. Please."
Her eyes begged him to understand and he did, at least to some extent. Jack tended to want solitude for this kind of thing too, recovery and recuperation from pain, licking old and new wounds. Having friends around could help sometimes, sure, but when the chips are down you are responsible for your own life.
How many times had he rejected the comfort offered by friends? The answer was many. So he kind of got it, but the rejection hurt. Once again, it made him wonder how his friends felt when he did this to them. And he was far less gentle and kind about it than Catherine was being with him.
"Okay, I'll go," he agreed after some thought. His hurt tone worried Catherine and when he started to get up immediately, she clung to his hand, which suggested he should sit again.
"I didn't mean right now, flyboy," she said lightheartedly, hoping to counteract some of the pain she realized she had caused. "I could do with a Jack cuddle." She smiled, although her swollen cheek smarted at the action.
Jack flopped back onto the couch and returned the smile. He waseHe thinking she was beautiful despite the bruises. Inside she was even more beautiful. 'Lucky, lucky, lucky man, Jack,' he thought.
"Yes, ma'am," he said, carefully draping an arm around her shoulders. A real embrace would probably be out of the question for a few more days at least. Nevertheless, Catherine sighed contentedly.
"I didn't mean to hurt your feelings," she said in a soft and affectionate tone.
"You didn't," he lied.
"Yes I did. You can't hide your feelings from me, Jack." This gave him pause to ponder.
"I can't?" he queried a little too cheerily while he considered the implication. He was not at all sure he liked that notion. Jack was used to hiding and suppressing. Was he giving too much away to Catherine?
"I'm guessing you find that thought a little discomforting, huh?" she asked, trying to search his eyes. However, he did not meet her enquiring gaze, instead looking somewhere toward his feet and remaining silent. The fingers of his free hand drummed on his thigh in a fidgety manner. Catherine had noticed this trait of Jack's. It often denoted his awkwardness, but still calm would have been worse. "Does what I see in you freak you out, Jack?"
He raised his eyes to meet hers at last. "Maybe a little," he admitted. "Sometimes."
"Are we getting too close for comfort?" she asked searchingly.
Jack gulped, the heat of her gaze adding to his unease. He paused for the longest moment before responding with disarming honesty. "Sometimes I think so." He wanted to tear his eyes away from hers but found he could not.
"Sometimes I think so too," she agreed.
"Right." Now he looked away, uncertain how to respond. He was not sure what all this meant.
"It's okay to think that, isn't it?" she asked.
"I guess…" He bit his bottom lip, still filled with uncertainty. "I'm not sure where you're going with this," he confessed.
"Trying to figure out what you feel."
Briefly, Jack wondered if she was anticipating a declaration of love. Now was a moment he could have made use of those three little words, but he did not because he could not.
"So you don't know everything I'm thinking, then?" he replied in a jocular way, pulling his eyes away from her thrall at last.
She laughed lightly but her response was far more serious. "I'm crazy about you, Jack O'Neill, but that doesn't mean I'm sure about anything."
"Crazy about me?" Jack grinned cheekily, still trying to keep the tone light, although he felt extremely pleased and flattered. He glanced at her for a moment but his eyes quickly started to roam the room. "That's good, right…? Or not…" His demeanor was self-deprecating.
"Yeah, it's good." She cuddled up closer to him, keeping his hand gently clasped in hers, but making use of her other hand to smooth it over his chest.
"But that doesn't mean you are sure about anything," he stated, quoting her words and prompting her to say more.
"No. But life is full of uncertainties, isn't it? That doesn't diminish my feelings for you."
Once again, Jack considered her words for a while before replying. He still was not certain what she was driving at, only that she seemed as unwilling to commit as he was, even while she obviously liked him a whole heck of a lot. This provided a kind of perverse comfort. It was fine by him. They did not have to fix anything in concrete right now. They had plenty of time to figure it all out.
His restless hand softly grasped her chin, and they locked eyes. "Yeah, well don't tell anyone, but I'm crazy about you too." Although his tone was lighthearted, Catherine knew he meant it. Jack never said things he did not mean.
"It's all good then," she responded with a faint smile.
"Is it?" he asked, gently smoothing his fingers over her uninjured cheek.
"Sure."
"Right." He looked and felt a little dubious but her hand continued to smooth over his shirt reassuringly. She briefly kissed his neck and then rested her head on his shoulder.
"I'd like you to stay with me tonight," she said. "Is that okay?"
"You know it is. And I should leave in the morning?"
She nodded and Jack found himself thinking he was okay with that. In fact, leaving might fit in neatly with his plans. But he was still wondering exactly what had just happened?
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"Well, that's a little odd, don't you think?" Daniel said when Jack did not respond to their knock on his door. He glanced at Teal'c, placing the crate of beer they had brought on the ground. "I'll go check round the back."
"Colonel Carter has arrived," Teal' said, stopping Daniel in his tracks.
"What's up guys?" she asked as she leapt out of her car.
"Jack doesn't seem to be here. I was just gonna check round the back."
Carter looked at him in surprise, paused thoughtfully for a moment, and then pulled out a small gun. "I'll go."
Daniel regarded her with astonishment. "Do you always carry one of those things to parties with friends?"
"Be prepared… You never know," she said with a wink, cautiously edging her way along the side of O'Neill's house. "Wait here." Teal'c moved to follow, but Daniel placed a hand on his shoulder to stop him.
"She'll be fine. Let's wait. It's probably nothing," he said and Teal'c bowed his head in agreement.
A couple of minutes later Carter returned. "No sign of life, no barbeque blazing away in the yard, no nothing."
"Think you should do your thing with the lock?" Daniel asked, looking around to check if anyone seemed to be watching.
"I'm not sure the general would appreciate that," Sam said dubiously.
"Something's wrong, Sam, and we all know it. He is expecting us today, isn't he? We haven't got our dates mixed up?" Sam shook her head and Teal'c inclined his head to agree. "Then he must be in trouble."
She stared him thoughtfully for a while and then nodded. "You're right. This barbeque might seem ill-fated, but if he had to cancel again surely he would have let one of us know." Extracting her lock picks from her pocket, Carter inserted them in O'Neill's lock and had the door open within a few seconds. "He really ought to make this place more secure. You never know who might drop by," she commented.
The three friends cautiously searched the house only to find the cupboard bare.
"Curiouser and curiouser," said Daniel, looking over the kitchen and popping his head around Jack's fridge door. "No food, at least no barbeque type food."
"This is indeed a puzzle," Teal'c said. "We must telephone the SGC. Perhaps they have heard from him."
"Maybe we should try his cell phone first," Daniel piped up, removing his phone from a pocket and pressing the speed dial. The call remained unanswered and his frown deepened, his brow furrowing into dark grooves of concern. "Damn it!" he cursed, hanging up and pressing the speed dial for an entirely different number located within the bowels of Cheyenne Mountain.
As far the duty officer was concerned, the general was at home and contactable on that phone or his cell. No one at the SGC had heard from him. Jack's ex-teammates exchanged worried looks.
"What about Catherine? Maybe he's there. Anyone got her number?" Sam asked doubtfully. It seemed unlikely O'Neill would have divulged that type of personal information to any of them.
"Shouldn't the SGC have that number for when he's there?" Daniel suggested. "Anyway, he'd have his cell phone with him, wouldn't he? He'd pick it up."
Daniel did not see Teal'c eye him with a doubtful expression, and the Jaffa did not pursue the issue of whether or not O'Neill always answered his phone.
"Is not the purpose of this gathering to meet this woman, Catherine?" he queried instead. "In which case she should be here, should she not?"
"Um… good point," Sam agreed. "So where are they?"
"Indeed."
The three friends exchanged anxious looks, wondering what to do next.
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Johnny James knew his mom would be angry with him if she discovered he had snuck out of the house when she was not there. She would never find out, he would make sure of that. He would be home well before she got there.
Technically, his mother should not have left little Johnny alone. He was too young. But she was a single mom whose husband had left her when Johnny was a baby, and she was trying her best to raise a kid by herself. Mrs James had to work and right now she was waiting tables at a restaurant a couple of blocks away. She would not return to their apartment until well past midnight.
Mrs James left little Johnny to supervise himself quite a lot. For him, it could be kind of fun sometimes, but was often a lonely and boring occupation. She had told him about leaving the apartment on his own, particularly at night. She had warned him about the dangerous dark. Johnny knew all of that, but it did not deter him from sneaking out sometimes, especially when he was bored. Besides, it was only just getting dark now, wasn't it? It had still been light when he left the apartment.
Johnny was playing cops and robbers with invisible friends, and pressed his back against the wall before thinking about entering the alley, just like he had seen cops do on TV. His little plastic gun was at the ready as he scoped the alley from that vantage point, looking for his foes.
The alley was a block from his apartment and Johnny loved playing cop there. Even in daylight, the place was forbidding. Large trashcans lined the narrow passageway and overflowed their dubious contents onto the ground. People in the neighborhood dumped assorted unsavory things down there, from broken old furniture and bottles to used needles and worse. Dogs roamed the alley dumping their unsavory things down there too, and it had frequently played host as the temporary home of the homeless
It smelled like the rarely deodorized armpits of the universe. Just the kind of place Johnny thought appropriate for his cop games – appropriately menacing like he watched on TV. The young boy would have denied he was scared. He was brave and tough. Or so he liked to pretend, which was one reason the dank, smelly place attracted him.
His mom would kill him if she knew. She'd probably ground him for life, or at least a few days, which would seem like a lifetime to the active young boy.
Discerning no immediate threat, he signaled silently to an imaginary cop colleague and broke out from hiding, running cautiously and quietly down the alley and hiding here and there along the way. Once again, he imitated what he had seen many times on TV. One of these days, he would do this for real. His life ambition was to be a cop and he could not wait until he was old enough. But that would be many years in his future. For now, all he could do was fake it.
Johnny was hiding behind one of the large trash cans when he saw them - three men dumping something large in amongst the rest of the trash while a fourth man looked on. Johnny watched carefully, wondering what they were doing. Were these real bad guys?
There was sufficient light to illuminate their faces clearly, and he burned them to memory. They looked like hoods to him, but even in his guise as the brilliant and strong Detective Johnny James of Colorado Springs PD – JJ to his fellow cops down at the Precinct - he did not confront them. Johnny knew better despite his fantasies.
So he watched them leave, noting the number plate of their truck in his prodigious memory banks. Then Johnny stayed where he was for a while to ensure they really had gone before he carefully tiptoed out of his hiding place to go look at what they had dumped in his alley.
Gasping at what he discovered, Johnny was suddenly afraid. Lying prostrate amongst the trash was a very battered and bloody man. He knew he had to call the police, possibly an ambulance, although he figured it might be a little late for paramedics. The man looked dead. Not that Johnny had ever seen a real dead person. All he could go on was what he had seen on TV.
Shit! Boy was his mom going to be pissed. She was bound to find out about his antics now. Johnny could have left the man where he was, failed to call it in. His mother would never find out then. But he could not bring himself to do that. He wanted to be a cop right? Leaving this poor guy just lying there was not a cop like thing to do.
So he ran like the wind back to his apartment to make the call. Then he returned to the scene of the crime to wait for the police to arrive. That would be exciting. He would be an important witness. He had seen the men who did this. He could identify them. His mom would be none too happy about that, he thought. Maybe, just maybe, he would get to see first hand how the cops really worked a case. Cool!
As he watched, he realized the man was still breathing. Shallowly, it seemed, from the limited rise and fall motion of his chest, but he was alive and not dead after all. Johnny sure hoped the paramedics got there in time to save him. He'd be a hero. His imaginative young mind started ranging around medals and citations, the Mayor shaking his hand, his picture in the paper. Wowie!
And whilst young Johnny stood vigil over the injured man waiting for the cops to arrive, the unconscious man struggled to take his next breath.
TBC
