Chapter Ten
The morning after Mac had awoken, in a tiny apartment in the north-east corner of Co-Op City Jeyman Hernandez stood, retching over the sink in his mother's bathroom. Turning on the faucet, he washed away his turmoil and turned to leave. As a car backfired on the edge of the lot, his mind's eye treated him to a vision of a dark-haired man, eyes wide, stumbling away from him behind a parked coupe. He shuddered. Picking up a sheaf of handwritten papers from his dresser drawer, he stuffed them into his Wilson Junior High bookbag, left a shaky note for his mother, and turned into the living room. A news segment on the TV in the corner of the room caught his imagination as his pulse quickened.
The banner headline "Shot CSI Chief Regains Consciousness" rolled under the news bulletin. "We understand that Detective Taylor has woken up; can he identify the shooter?" "What is his condition now?" "Is there any more information on the case?" Another detective, this one tall, reed-thin and extremely focussed, was leaving the 74th Precinct and being bombarded with questions by the local press. He raised a hand for silence. Knowing that he wouldn't suffer fools, the anchors, unusually, obliged. The nametag underneath the footage read "Det. Don Flack, NYPD Homicide". "Detective Taylor has regained consciousness, and our investigation is ongoing. We will not be releasing any more information on the case until we're in a position to do so, so don't (he glared pointedly at the hack who'd dared to interrupt) even ask. I will say this, though: we will catch whoever did this and they will be prosecuted to the full extent of the law. No further comment will be made at this time." Ignoring the hurly-burly and the rising cacophony of voices, the new detective strode through the crowd, folding himself into his car.
Stunned, Jey dropped to a sitting position, perched on the edge of the couch. After a classmate had been gunned down in a driveby, he had seen Detective Flack in the hallways taking statements, and he'd heard about the guy's determination from his friends. Don Flack was not a man to be messed with, and if he was looking for him then he had no chance. He would have to knock this on the head himself.
Across town at St Luke's, Mac Taylor was fighting...with a nurse. As she tried to coax him into letting her sedate him so she could replace his outer stitches with a smaller gauge, he shook his head, arguing that "surely they must be fine" as they were. Sighing, Laurel headed out into the corridor, almost colliding with Don, who was on his way in. Blushing lightly at the kind smile and the "Woah, sorry!" that he offered her, she explained in an undertone that Mac was refusing a treatment that could aid his healing, apparently out of sheer stubbornness. Mouth setting into a grim line, Don turned and stepped into the room as Laurel shook herself, a shiver running down her spine at the chilling determination in Flack's blue eyes. Re-entering the room she found herself in the midst of an argument, with Mac pushing against Don every inch of the way. "Arite Mac, time for plan B. I know you'll probably kill me once you're strong enough, but you need this so I don' care." In one swift movement, Don had pinned Mac's arms to his sides. "Will you please just let her do this?" Mac sighed, acquiescing as Don loosened his grip. "Thank you." A cheeky smirk was swiftly replaced by a surprisingly gentle tone of voice as Don helped Laurel to manoeuvre him into the right position: "Mac, I'm just gonna hold your hands in case you try to move too much, okay." As he stirred, then slipped under properly, his friend perched on the edge of the bed and gripped each hand between both of his. After a few minutes of efficient work from the RN, Don felt safe enough to let go as Laurel placed the finishing knots on a set of finer, smaller stitches that were more appropriate now that Mac's wound was healing.
Turning onto his side, Mac's face relaxed, as did the tension in his shoulders. Don watched carefully, eyes raking his features for any sign of discomfort as his phone began to buzz in his breast pocket. Taking the call, he stepped out into the hall. "Hey, Don, it's Lindsey. We got a case to case hit on the bullet they recovered from Mac, and there's some trace on the vic's shirt you should probably see when you're done." "Okay, what've we got?" "The gun was used in a bodega robbery in Midtown three years ago: we arrested a big pusher called Lil' Sugar but because we didn't have the gun we couldn't link him to the crime." "You think he's still got the weapon?" "Could be worth a shot." Snapping his cell shut, Don motioned to Laurel. "Can you tell him I'm following a lead when he wakes up?" "Sure thing. And...thanks." Nodding, Flack turned and left.