To suffering there is a limit; to fearing, none."

Francis Bacon Sr.


Lights And Sirens


Apartment of EADA Jack McCoy

Manhattan

10:20 pm Wednesday 22 November 2006


The sound of Casey tripping over her own shoe woke McCoy from a doze. He raised himself on his elbow to see her hunting around on the floor. She was already dressed.

"You're leaving?" he asked.

"We both have an early start," Casey said. "It's better if I go." She perched on the edge of the bed and leaned down to kiss him, a brief peck that McCoy made more of, pulling her down to him with one hand on the small of her back and the other sliding up her thigh. Casey gasped and pressed closer to him, brushing her lips over his teasingly. McCoy tangled his hand in her hair and held her still, teasing her in turn before parting her lips with his tongue for a long, lingering kiss.

When he pulled away from Casey her eyes were unfocused, her face flushed. "Are you sure you want to go?" he asked her.

"Not so much," she murmured, leaning into him. "You do such terrible things to my judgement."

"Oh, to your judgement, is it? Is that what the kids are calling it these days?"

Casey giggled and then caught her breath. "Oh, do that again. Just – oh."

"What? Tamper with your judgement?"

"If that's what the kids are calling it these days." Casey began to unbutton her blouse again. McCoy helped her. He was just about to push it from her shoulders when Casey's cell phone began to ring. "Shit."

"Don't answer," McCoy said, but Casey was already fumbling beside the bed for her bag.

"That's the ring tone I use for the cops, I have to – Casey here. Uh huh. What?"

She froze, phone to her ear, expression stunned, and just then McCoy's own phone began to ring. Casey met his gaze, mouthed Answer it.

The chill that washed over McCoy utterly vanquished desire. Urgent late night phone calls were never harbingers of good news. Casey's expression left him in no doubt that the two calls were not coincidence. That took it from bad news to very bad news. Moving mechanically, McCoy picked up his phone from the bedside table.

" Jack, it's Adam. Pick up the phone. Jack. Pick up the phone."

" Jack, it's Anita."

"We've found a car."

"What's happened?" McCoy demanded harshly. What's happened? And who has it happened to?

"It's Danielle Jack."

"Everybody's going to be okay," Van Buren said. "Everybody's going to be okay, Jack." Not everybody is okay. Everybody is going to be okay.

"There's really no good way to tell you this so I'm just going to say it."

"Who?" McCoy asked. "Goddamn, Anita, who?" Out of the corner of his eye he saw Casey half turn towards him, distracted from her own phone call by the tone of McCoy's voice.

" Olivia Benson from Special Victims went with Markham to Mercy," Van Buren said. "She's dinged up a bit, but – "

"What?" McCoy asked. "What – Anita. Start again."

Van Buren told him, bare bones of the story: Edward Walters, Regan Markham, an alley and Anita happening to be passing on her way to her car. Walters dead before he could do any permanent harm. Regan on her way to hospital. Dinged up.

McCoy thanked her distantly and cut the connection. Any permanent harm. Years in the DA's Office and more bitter personal experience had taught McCoy that lack of permanence and lack of severity were not necessarily the same thing.

Casey was already buttoning her blouse again. She picked up McCoy's pants from the floor and tossed them to him.

"That was Don Cragen," she said. "Did you – "

" Anita Van Buren," McCoy said, pulling on his pants and reaching for his shirt. " Edward Walters attacked Regan Markham."

"Same-same," Casey said. "I've got to get to the scene. You coming?" McCoy didn't answer her, pulling on his shirt, and Casey paused. " Jack? You coming to the scene?"

McCoy shook his head. "I'm going to Mercy."

"Oh," Casey said. "Right. Okay. You go to the hospital. I'll go to the scene. Do you know where my other shoe – don't worry. I see it." She pulled it on, hopping towards the door. " Don said Regan is fine, Jack. I'll see you later."

Seconds later, the front door closed behind her.

McCoy was not much slower. He was in a cab in less than five minutes, and he spent the ride trying not to remember how many times he'd taken a trip like this before – in a cab, in a cop car, in the DA's town car, to the hospital, to a safe-house that wasn't safe, to a car in a lane in the woods…

He tried not to think, not to imagine, but it was a losing battle. McCoy'd read the file on Walters. He'd seen what Phillip Watts had done with Walters's crime as a template. Dinged up. What the hell does Anita mean by 'dinged up'? What the hell does 'no permanent damage' mean?

Regan Markham in an alley became Mary Firienze in a basement garbage room became Alex Borgia in the trunk of a car Toni Ricci on the bloodstained carpet Danielle Melnick on a stretcher –

Enough! McCoy told himself. He paid the cabbie and got out. For a few moments he stood outside the hospital doors, not sure whether the chill he felt came from the winter night or whether it came from within. Familiar face, dead eyes bulging, tape mashing her lips against her teeth –

He ran his hand over his face, wiping away cold sweat. Gotta go in there. He couldn't make his feet move. Don Cragen told Casey that Regan was fine. Anita Van Buren said she was going to be okay, that she was 'dinged up'. McCoy couldn't make himself go through the doors to find out what any of that meant. Gotta go in there.

But in there –

Trunk of a car and the flies – bruised face against hospital pillows – blood-stained carpet -

" Mr McCoy!" McCoy looked up to see Olivia Benson standing in front of him, carrying several large plastic bags. He recognised the suit Regan had been wearing that day.

"Detective," McCoy said, and swallowed hard. "Is she okay?"

"She got pretty beat up," Olivia said. "But nothing that won't mend. The SAE kit was negative." The detective paused. "Are you here to see her?'

"Yes," McCoy said, a little surprised she'd asked.

" Mr McCoy, she's not doing too good," Olivia said gently. "You need to think about whether or not she'd want you to see her."

"Not doing too good?" McCoy echoed. " Anita said she'd be okay, how badly was – what – what happened to her?"

Olivia shook her head. "No, I don't mean physically. I mean – she had a rough time. She's a little bit unglued. You might want to wait until she's been able to get herself together."

"She's not doing too good so you left her on her own?" McCoy asked harshly.

"She wanted me to," Olivia said, meeting his gaze levelly.

McCoy shook his head and turned away. "She's in the E.R. still?"

"Yeah. Third on the left after the nurses' station."

McCoy walked away from her. He found the nurses' station, found the cubicle third on the left. He looked through the open door and saw Regan –

And the flies are the worst part, the buzzing. A couple fly into McCoy's face and he bats them away. He looks down into the trunk of the car and sees them crawling across the tape that silenced and suffocated Alex. One circles and then lands on her open eye. Then the smell hits him, blood, vomit. If for the first instant after he saw her McCoy wanted to wake her up, lift her out of there and carry her to safety, now he knows absolutely and unquestionably that she is dead. Dead. Her eyes are open and blank and whatever made her Alex Borgia is gone from them.

Saw Regan gagged with electrician's tape that had been wound around and around her head –

Flickering blue screen showing a familiar bruised face with tape wrapped around and around, arms twisted behind her and a pool of blood beneath her head and McCoy knows in that second that Mary might have been alive when they put her in the ambulance but nobody comes back from what's been done to her. Her eyes are half open, fixed and sightless.

Saw her with one eye swollen nearly shut, half her face discoloured and caked with blood –

Her red hair is vivid against the green of the carpet. Her face looks even paler against it. Her face is pale because the blood that should course through her veins and light her cheeks with a delicate flush is soaking into the carpet beneath her, caking her shirtfront, spilled from the deep gash in her neck. Her eyes are open. McCoy imagines he sees defiance in them, knows in the next instant that it's only imagination, that there's nothing to see in Toni Ricci's eyes and never again will be.

Saw the oxygen mask over Regan's mouth and swollen bloodied nose, the hospital gown baggy on her lanky frame, her legs and arms bruised and welted from the ropes –

Eyes open for ever, always and forever open and unseeing, in the trunk of that car, on the carpet, on the concrete floor …

Red hair and blood – blonde hair – broken body in a hospital bed – tape and blood and -

With all the dead women in the room staring accusingly at him with their ever-open eyes, McCoy stood frozen, thinking despairingly I couldn't lose another one of you, I couldn't, not one more, I tried to keep you safe I tried I tried

And then Regan reached out past the doctor towards him and the movement broke the spell. Dinged up.

Not dead. Dinged up.

Not dead, and looking at him with mute appeal. McCoy put aside the guilt of I tried to keep you safe because he might not have been able to do that but –

That was never what she asked.

Memory banished imagined nightmare. Regan folds the cloth and wipes McCoy's forehead, her touch impersonal despite the intimacy of the act. She looks down at him with dispassionate kindness. Sitting on the edge of the bed, she reaches out to brush his hair away from his forehead. "I'm here," she promises, as she has been through all the darkest hours of the night.

McCoy ignored the doctor's half-formed protest. "I'm here," he told Regan, taking the hand she held out to him. She gripped his fingers painfully hard and he put his other hand over hers as he perched on the edge of the bed. "I'm here."

The doctor looked at their clasped hands. "Family?" he asked.

"We work together," McCoy said.

The doctor raised his eyebrows but said nothing. "I'm almost through here," he said.

Regan used her free hand to pull her mask down. "I'm sorry, Jack," she said. Her voice was hoarse. "I tried to – I couldn't breathe, I didn't know what to do – he just –" A fit of coughing wracked her.

"Mask on," the doctor said, taking it from her fingers and putting it back over her mouth and nose. Regan shook her head and tried to move it again. " Ms Markham, you need to keep that on and you need to hold still."

McCoy squeezed Regan's hand. "It's okay. I know. Just let the doctor work."

She subsided, not looking reassured. When the doctor peeled the last of the tape from her face, revealing bloody grazes and abrasions across her cheek and lips, Regan pulled the mask down again. "You don't know. I didn't – " She stopped, coughing, and batted the doctor's hands away as he tried to put the mask back. "If I'd been –that's why – " Gasping for breath, she crushed McCoy's fingers in a desperate grip, her voice rising as her agitation increased. "If I'd – no, dammit, leave me alone!" she snapped at the doctor, pushing him away. "I just – let me – " Another fit of coughing doubled her over.

"Can you give her something to calm her down?" McCoy asked the doctor as he rubbed Regan's shoulder.

"We'd rather not," the doctor said. "She's had a couple of nasty knocks to the head and her blood alcohol is up. Regan, do you understand? You have to calm down, Regan, do you understand? Take slow breaths. Take it easy."

Regan let the doctor put the mask back on her, but she was stiff with tension. McCoy had seen victims of assault panic at even casual physical contact. Regan's anxiety didn't seem to be of that nature. She didn't flinch from him. In fact, she clung to his hand – but she was panic stricken, nonetheless.

"A nurse will come in and put a dressing on those grazes," the doctor said. Regan nodded tightly. "I'll be back in a little while to see how you're doing."

As soon as the doctor left the cubicle Regan yanked the mask away from her mouth again. "I have to get out of here," she said huskily.

"Not yet," McCoy said. "Let them take care of you first."

Regan shook her head. "No, you don't – don't understand. That's when it goes wrong. First I don't – " She was doubled over by another fit of coughing but kept forcing words out. "Don't know – what I should – what to do – then I get lost – the hospital – that's how it – " A sob tore through her.

"Calm down," McCoy said, alarmed by her struggle to breathe. He tried to put her mask back on.

"I couldn't do anything. He got the – the drop on me – and I – and I –" Another sob shook her. She pulled at the mask, trying to untangle herself from the oxygen line, trying to get off the bed.

McCoy stopped her. "Regan, Regan, calm down, it's okay."

"No," she said hoarsely. "No, it's not." McCoy put the mask over her mouth and nose again and she pushed his hands away, shaking her head. "I get it wrong – this time it's Anita Van Buren – if she gets jammed up – for my fault, it's my fault! I didn't have to, but she had to – " Regan tried to say something else but couldn't get the breath to do so, heaved a gulping sob and then another. She started to get off the bed.

"Regan, come on." McCoy put his hands on her shoulders to stop her and felt the shudders running through her as if she'd been swimming in the mid-winter Hudson. He drew her to him and put his arm around her shoulders, feeling her shaking as she gasped for breath. "Calm down, calm down," he said as she sobbed and choked against his chest. "Calm down."

"Don't let them take me," Regan said desperately, lifting her head to look imploringly up at him. "Don't – "

"Nobody is taking you anywhere," McCoy said firmly, drawing her head down to his shoulder.

All of a sudden she gave in, sagging against him.

"I was so scared," she whispered in a rush. "I was so scared and I didn't know what to do." She began to cry quietly.

"It's over," McCoy said. "It's over now. It's over." He untangled the mask from around her neck and put it back over her mouth, and Regan let him, then put her head back down on his shoulder, fist clenched in his shirt. "You'll be all right now." McCoy was not entirely sure if he was talking to her or to himself. "You'll be all right." Regan nodded, eyes closed, tears trickling down her cheeks.

Glad that the worst of her panic seemed to have eased, McCoy settled her against him and ran his hand over her hair. It was ragged now around her neck where the doctor had cut the tape away and spiky with dried blood. McCoy smoothed it down and then cupped his hand around the nape of Regan's neck, gently kneading the tense muscles there until Regan sighed and went completely limp against him.

McCoy looked up to see Casey Novak standing silent in the doorway.

If he had not been facing the door he wouldn't have known she had even been there. For a long moment Casey held his gaze over the top of Regan's head. McCoy opened his mouth to speak and Casey shook her head at him. Still without a word, she turned and walked away.

Fix that tomorrow, McCoy thought, knowing even as he thought it that tomorrow would be too late. He could go after her, explain – She's upset, Casey– but that would leave Regan alone.

And someone has to be with her until the dark hours have passed.

"I'm here," McCoy told Regan.

"I can tell," Regan murmured, sounding almost normal. McCoy ran his hand over her hair again, and she heaved a shaky sigh. "God, I'm sorry I'm such a mess."

"Nah," McCoy said. "You're just – having a very bad day."

Regan gave a little whimper that might have been a laugh. "Is there some understatement competition you're entered in?"

"Citywide," McCoy said.

"Yeah, you just won," Regan said. She loosened her grip on his shirt and smoothed out the creases she'd made. " Jack, Anita Van Buren – Olivia said she might catch it over this. That she has enemies in the department?"

"Don't worry about it," McCoy said. He rubbed her back. "She does have some enemies, that's true. But she'll be alright over this."

"Are you sure?" Regan asked.

"I'll make sure," McCoy promised.

"Thank you," Regan said. She turned her head to look up at him. "I'm sorry I interrupted your evening."

"So long as next time you get jumped by a violent serial rapist, you make sure it's in office hours," McCoy said dryly, and Regan snorted.

"I'll remember," she said. " Jack – I'm okay, I'll be okay. If you need to – if you want to go. I'll be fine."

"I know," McCoy said, not loosening his arm from around her shoulders. Regan sighed a little and settled more comfortably against him. "So tell me, Regan, what happened to that good-looking narcotics cop you were dancing with? He give you the slip?"

She laughed again and stifled a cough. "Just what kind of a girl do you think I am?"

McCoy looked down at the bloodied face behind the oxygen mask, at the deep rope burns around the wrist lying on his shoulder. He freed a strand of hair that was trapped beneath the mask straps and tucked it behind her ear. "The tough kind," he told her.

Regan's lip trembled. "Not so tough tonight," she said shakily. " Walters – he was all over me."

"Yeah, maybe," McCoy said. "But he's the one in the body-bag. And you're the one who walked away."

"Is that how it's supposed to work out?" Regan asked, and McCoy was surprised to hear a genuine question in her voice.

McCoy tightened his arms around her. "Who knows if that's how things were supposed to work out," he told her. "I'm just glad it's how they did."


.oOo.