Chapter 10: 3.3 Days (cont.)
"Come on," Frisk said through his teeth. "Come on!"
Hanson looked over at him. Frisk had the gun on him then turned it onto the clerk.
"Come on!" Frisk repeated. He grabbed the money from the clerk and shoved it into his jacket.
"Tom."
Hanson turned. "Amy. Nooooo!" he screamed then jumped in front of Amy so he could take the bullet. The force of the bullet entering his chest threw him backwards and he fell into a shelf of chips that tipped over under his weight. He lay there unable to breathe through the pain of the bullet shooting through his body.
Suddenly, Frisk was above him smiling at him. "Stupid cop. She's dead anyway."
Horror filled Hanson. He turned his head and saw Amy lying on the floor covered in blood, just like she had been a hundred times already. Then Frisk picked up his foot and placed it on Hanson's chest where he had been shot and pushed down, smiling the whole time.
Hanson cried out at the pain tearing across his chest down to his fingertips. He gasped as the pain reached levels he hadn't expected in a dream and suddenly, he wasn't in a dream anymore. The pain remained but it wasn't in his chest, it was in his arm. He heard the waves of the ocean hitting the shore and felt a cool breeze against his cheek. He was surprisingly warm for lying on the beach in the Northwest and opened his eyes to see grey clouds partially obscured by Doug's brown jacket.
He moved to lie down on his back and instantly regretted it. Holy, holy, holy crap his arm hurt. It was like someone was twisting his arm over and over again. He swallowed hard and held still biting down on his lip until the worst of it passed and the pain tamed to a sharp pulsing. He moved his right hand to hold onto his injured arm and noted that that it was cold and fleetingly wondered if he should be worried about that.
He closed his eyes and pondered whether he could go back to sleep again. The sound of the waves was soothing and the cool, salty breeze was therapy for lungs used to dank building air. He concentrated on the throbbing in his arm and the rhythm of the surf and he managed kind of a half consciousness until another wave of white-hot pain started to build in his arm and he sat up quickly to see if he could get it to stop. He supported himself with his good arm and let out another gasp as the pain shifted but kept building. He grabbed his arm and held his breath as the wave peaked then slowly receded.
Once it was back to simply throbbing, he allowed himself to breathe again. He could feel sweat prickling on the back of his neck and cooling in the light breeze but at least the pain was somewhat manageable. He opened his eyes and looked around. Doug was sleeping soundly next to him. They were both covered with a large unfamiliar quilt decorated with small, multicolored triangles arranged in different shapes.
Hanson moved his eyes to take in the rest of his surroundings. The sky seemed darker but it was still light out so they must not have been sleeping for a really long time. He turned his head and saw that Stokes was sitting in a camp chair holding a book. He wasn't reading but looking at him over his reading glasses with a concerned expression.
"Are you in pain?" Stokes asked him.
"A bit."
"Can I get you something?"
"Uh, Penhall bought me something," he said looking around not really ready to try to stand up yet. "It's in a plastic bag." He couldn't see it where he was sitting so he started to get up but suddenly another red-hot poker was shoved into his arm. At least that's what it felt like. The pain consumed him and he had to sit curled up until it passed. Once it did enough for him to open his eyes again, he found Stokes kneeling in front of him with the bottle of ibuprofen.
"What's wrong with your arm? Do you need help? You look like you're in a terrible amount of pain."
"I was shot," he mumbled.
"By the same person?" Stokes asked, a surprised expression on his face.
"Yeah."
Stokes looked like he wanted more details but thankfully restrained himself from asking. He opened the bottle and dropped three capsules in his palm, hesitated, then add another. Hanson took the pills and tried to dry swallow them but his throat was so sticky they just stuck to the inside of the back of his mouth.
"Here, drink some of this. Careful, it's hot." Stokes handed him an open thermos and Hanson took a sip then drank enough to get the pills down. The heat burned his throat but was the best thing he'd tasted in a while and the warmth and sugar were like salve to his throat.
"Thanks," he said holding out the thermos of hot chocolate to try to hand it back to Stokes. "That stuff is awesome."
Stokes smirked. "Compliments of my wife, Sara. Hold onto it and drink more if you can. The calories will probably do you some good. Do you want anything else? Sara also brought you some bread and stew."
Hanson shook his head. "No, thanks." He felt another wave building in his arm and tried to prepare for it. He took a deep breath and prayed that the pills would be strong enough to at least stop the spasms. He put down the thermos and wrapped his good arm around his legs and pulled them up into the smallest ball he could make.
"Should I wake your partner?" Stokes asked putting a hand on his shoulder.
"No," Hanson said into his knees. "Let him sleep. He can't do anything more than you have. Please just give me a few minutes."
"Okay," Stokes said and Hanson felt his presence move away from him.
Hanson stayed in his self made cocoon even between the undulating spasms. He didn't want attention and it was just easier to be prepared. After what seemed like eons, the pain did dull. It was still ever present and throbbing but it was slightly more distant so that he could actually think a little bit. The first thing he noticed beyond his arm was the ocean waves, the constant rhythm lulling him to relax. He tried to concentrate on them but soon his mind started pounding him again with the same questions he'd been trying to escape from for days. Why didn't he save Amy? Why didn't he do the thousands of things he could have to at least try to save her? Was he going to be able to find a way through this hell? Why should he? Why should he be given another chance? Amy wasn't going to get a second chance. How was he going to be able to face everyone? And, how was he ever going to be able to face himself again?
He thought back to when his dad had died. How was he able to move on from that? Of course, it had been different. He still had lots of regrets but he hadn't been there when his dad had been killed. It hadn't been his fault. And, his mom had fallen apart with the loss of her husband so he wasn't able to just lie down or crawl into a hole like he had wanted to so many times. All of the decisions and duties surrounding the funeral, burial, finances - hell, even food and laundry - had fallen on him. And the media and court appearances that he'd been shuffled around to while he was still half in shock and the statements that had been shoved in his hands that he'd read without understanding the words. They were beyond hell. The thought of them still made his heart race.
Even accepting his dad's stupid Medal of Valor he had done himself while his mom sat catatonic in the crowd. He remembered standing in front all of those expectant faces in uniform. He had just forced a smile around the huge rock in his throat and stared at a piece of paper that contained a few brief words that his dad's partner, Charlie, had written down that were supposed to be included in some profound speech. But the speech never happened. He had been so furious with everyone by that point. What the hell had they wanted him to say? Thank you?
Since that night, though, he'd berated himself for not being strong enough to say something, anything, even if he would have blubbered through it. He had full speeches in his head that he had given over and over to himself about what a great cop, friend, husband and dad Officer Thomas Hanson Sr. had been. But not a word had left his mouth. Briody had apologized to him later for having the ceremony too early after his dad's death, something about a bill and state legislative session timeline but, even so, his dad had deserved more than just a fake smile and nod of the head.
What a complete failure he'd been.
Nope, he was pretty sure he and his mom would not be shining examples of the proper way to honor and mourn the dead. He knew that personally he'd skipped a few of the 'steps' with his dad. To this day, the loss still felt raw and talking about his dad continued to be as hard now as it had been since the night he died. That most likely wasn't a good thing.
Of course, none of that really mattered. Amy was different. Instead of just dealing (or stumbling forward) with the aftermath, with Amy he had been there.
Sweet, adorable Amy. She had been so beautiful and caring. A good match for him? No. But, she would have been an incredible wife and mother for someone else. That would never happen now. No, he had had a gun and a badge that had sat uselessly under his jacket while he watched her die taking away any chance of her having a future, any future. He could have done something that would have, theoretically at least, kept her alive but didn't. And afterwards, he didn't do any of the things he was supposed to do. He didn't go to the funeral. Didn't talk to her family. Didn't let the detectives do their job the right way.
So, what was he going to do now? By far the easiest thing would be to keep moving, to get as far away as possible. Penhall was still asleep. With an excuse to have to use the restroom, he could easily slip by Stokes. He could pretend he was someone else. To do what? He had no idea.
But what would he leave behind? An even bigger trail of destruction? What would happen to his mom? What would happen to Penhall, the person he'd become surprisingly firmly attached to in just a couple of years of being partners and friends?
Would Frisk be let go if he wasn't there to testify? Was that fair to Amy's family? Even though he was used to testifying and even facing up to some dumb moves, getting up and talking about something so personal and explaining these mistakes in front of everyone would be….. He couldn't even think of a word that would properly capture how excruciating that would be. He couldn't do it. It would be impossible for him to sit up in front of Frisk and Fuller and Amy's family and his peers and tell them how stupid and selfish he was.
Hanson rested his forehead on his knees and pulled them in a little closer to his chest. A lump had formed in his throat that threatened to choke him to death. He heard Stokes move behind him like he was getting up, moving the chair closer to him then sitting down again. Great. The old man had no idea what he had been coerced into. Hanson didn't even know what color Stokes' eyes were. He hadn't bothered to get himself to look into his eyes.
But he did remember what Stokes had said: that his penance for his wrongdoings was to do the hard stuff so others didn't have to. Hanson wondered what exactly Stokes had done wrong and what he did that was so hard. Did it really compare or was he just being "helpful"? He thought about asking but then decided not to. A conversation would lead to questions that he still wasn't prepared to answer.
But that was it, wasn't it? Doing what's unfathomably difficult and painful as a self-imposed punishment to try to make retribution for his mistakes. Like being around for Amy's family and preparing them for when they'd have to face Frisk. And testifying and making sure that justice will be served for Amy, as if there would be any justice. Talking to the doctors and shrinks and letting them poke and prod him until he was "better." Facing Internal Affairs and, even worse, Fuller. What had Fuller said? 'Things will never be the same between us.' He couldn't think about how he'd betrayed Fuller now too. It was too much.
Hanson took in a deep breath and let it out slowly to try to contain the panic that was building in him as he faced the reality that, in the end, he didn't really have a choice in what to do. As appealing as it was, running away wasn't feasible. Everyone would come after him and drag him back. And, no one, including himself, would benefit from him even trying. Well, that wasn't entirely true. Frisk would probably appreciate it.
"You're thinking too much."
Hanson blinked and focused not really knowing if someone had actually said that or if that statement was made in his own head.
"Officer Hanson, that's right, isn't it?"
Hanson looked over to see Stokes sitting next to him in his camping chair looking over his reading glasses again. Hanson nodded his head.
"I know it's none of my business," Stokes continued. "But sometimes there isn't an answer or there isn't one that will come without help."
Hanson made no response but was listening.
"What are you thinking so hard about?"
"I don't know," Hanson responded. "Everything, I guess. What happened. What I'm going to do now."
"Have you come to any conclusions?" Stokes asked taking off his glasses.
"I have to go back but I don't know if I can," Hanson said quietly more to himself than to Stokes.
Stokes looked out at the ocean and took a deep breath. "Yeah, I can understand that. Well, here's my sage advice for you. If you come to a fork in the road, take it."
Hanson looked up and stared at him. "You're quoting Yogi Berra?"
Stokes smiled. "I'm impressed. My grandkids would have dismissed that as grandpa being senile again." Stokes paused looking like he was considering whether he should continue or not. "It's really shitty when you can't fix what you think you've broken. But sometimes life hands you a crappy hand and you still should play it the best you can because chances are that the next hand will be better. Life goes on as long as you stay in the game." Stokes snorted. "I would have punched anyone who would have said that to me when I was younger."
Hanson did feel himself get angry but then he really didn't have a right to get angry with Stokes. It wasn't Stokes' idea to get pulled into his mess.
"I'm not helping," Stokes said as he leaned down and opened a cooler that was sitting next to him. The cooler made an awful creaking sound as plastic rubbed against plastic. He pulled out of it a small thermos and a Ziploc bag of bread. "Here, eat something. Sara's specialty is homemade comfort food. It always makes me feel better and it would hurt her feelings if you didn't eat."
Doug rolled over and sat up. "Did someone mention something about homemade food?"
Hanson gave a slight grin to Stokes and took the thermos and bread and handed it over to Doug. Stokes took two more thermoses out of the cooler and gave one to Hanson then dug in the bottom of the cooler for spoons to hand out.
"How long have you been awake?" Doug asked as he took the lid off of his food and dug in. "Holy, this is good!"
"Not long," Hanson answered taking a bite of his own stew. He had no appetite but didn't want to be rude to people who were being so sincerely kind to them. The stew tasted surprisingly amazing and he instantly felt the warm food energizing his body. He ate slowly to make sure his stomach wasn't going to revolt but with every bite, he felt his mood improve. So, apparently, the temporary cure for the world crashing down was Mrs. Stokes' Stew. Of course, this was when he started to think again about how unfair it was that he should be there eating food with a good friend and a good Samaritan when Amy couldn't. He stopped mid-bite and put the spoon back in the thermos. Stokes and Doug must have noticed since they both stopped shoveling food in their mouths as well.
He struggled to put the cover back on the thermos with one good hand and arm and finally managed it and handed it over to Stokes. As he did, it suddenly struck him that he recognized the conflicting thoughts and emotions. The glimmer of good that he felt he had to squash with the mountain of bad. The same thing went on for a long time with his dad. Apparently, it wasn't going to be different with Amy. He was going to have to do the same things again that had ripped apart his insides when his dad died. It was going to be unbearable but he'd survived it once. Even if he didn't make it this time, he owed it to everyone to at least try.
It was time to surrender, to swallow his poison and get on with it. He took in a deep breath and slowly let it out. "Thanks for everything. I mean, both of you, for, I don't know, all this."
There was still silence beyond the sound of the waves crashing over the shore. Hanson looked at Doug. Doug's eyebrows were knit together so tight they almost looked like a unibrow.
"Are you okay driving back?" he asked Penhall to try to break the tension.
"Yeah, but, are you okay?"
Hanson shook his head. "No, but I'm better than I was this morning." He tried out a smile. It didn't quite feel right so he let it drop. "How much trouble have I gotten you into?"
Doug's unibrow turned into a look of surprise then a smirk. "We might be going back to the academy again." Doug poked him in the arm. "No skipping out on me this time though, got it?"
Hanson didn't dare point out that his badge could very well already be permanently gone. His heart jumped in his chest at the thought of not being a cop and not working with Penhall every day. What would he do? Flounder, that's what. Hanson stopped himself from going down that road. He needed to take one step at a time. The first would be to make a promise. Determined, he looked directly at Penhall. "No skipping out on you."
End of Chapter 10