CHAPTER 3: ACCIDENT

Mother of God, what was that.

Lennie opened his eyes, dazed.  What a loud sound.  His ears hurt like hell.  Sound so loud like a crash.

That was a crash.

A crash?  Was he just in an accident?

Was that why the car wasn't moving?

He fumbled at his seat belt.  Where the hell was he?  Whose car was this?

Claire.  Claire Kincaid.

"Claire?"

She was leaning over to the side, away from him.  Couldn't see her face.  Get outta the car.  Maybe she's looking out the other side.  Go help Claire.

So hard unbuckling.  Why these damn things couldn't be just a little – oh, there it was.  Trying to get the door open.  OK, slow down, concentrate, there, he opened the door.  Go to Claire's side.

Stumbled around the car.  Claire?

Claire.  Face to the side, blood running down, slumped to the side.  Car crumpled on her side.

Oh my god.

He was a homicide detective, had seen plenty of bodies in various states of distress, and even through a haze of alcohol he could recognize one that was dead or dying.  And this was a body that had suffered far too much damage to be viable.

Oh my god.

He started to cry.  Oh my god.  Claire.

No.

She couldn't be dead.

People her age don't just die.

Sure they do.  They die at any age.  They die senselessly, violently, suddenly.  All the time.

He stood, sobbing, then slowly realized that even though it looked for all the world like there was no way this girl was anything other than dead, dead, dead, he could be wrong.  Please god, he could be wrong.  OK.  So what should he do to help make himself be wrong?  Call somebody.

Call who?  Wait, what was that sound?  Sirens.  That's what he should do, call an ambulance.  That would be a good idea.  Call 911, if he could find a phone somewhere.  Sirens coming closer.  Maybe they could tell him where to find a phone.  No wait - if they came here he wouldn't need a phone.  Hey, they were getting really close, and there it was, there was an ambulance.  Did he call them?  Nope, musta been somebody else.  Some good Samaritan musta called the moment the car hit – unless he had blacked out, been in the car longer than he thought.

Ambulance.

Police car.  Just like that, ambulance and police.  Police, Fire and Ambulance, that's 911.  Hey, he was police too, but he didn't count.

People swarming about, getting Claire out, talking real fast at each other.  Pushing him aside until one of them noticed the open passenger side door and looked at him.

"You know this lady?" a young guy asked.

"Yeah – Claire, Claire Kincaid," he managed.

"You were in the car?"

"Yeah-" before he knew it, and much faster than he could follow, he was being grabbed and quickly assessed, light in his eyes, quick hands checking him out, babbling incomprehensible gibberish at each other, just as quickly leaving him alone, except for one guy who told him brusquely, "Get in," and indicated the ambulance.  He said something about Just fine, hospital anyway, which Lennie couldn't follow at all.  And then they were off to the races, two guys grimly shooting instructions at each other as the ambulance shrieked through the streets, still working on Claire, and Lennie couldn't even see her.  He stayed in a corner, as still as possible.  That's what you do in an emergency, let the pros do their job and just stay outta their way.

Hospital.  Doors blowing open on the ambulance, another ambulance pulling in right behind them, quick-talking paramedics rushing out with Claire, the other ambulance spitting out the other driver and his own paramedics, now joined by medical people from the hospital swarming out and taking over, and though Lennie couldn't follow a damn thing they said he had a brief image of a relay race, batons passed, first runners slowing and moving off the track, their part done, second runners sprinting off, quick quick quick.  And the batons were Claire and the other driver.  Didn't seem like he was hurt so bad.  Still conscious, yelling, drunk as a skunk as they rushed him away.

Where'd they take her?

And then some black guy was checking him out, white coat, stethoscope swinging, asking him questions, a repeat of what they did at the scene, a little slower though.  Couldn't really follow too well.  Pain, numbness, tingling, pain in back, neck?  Muttering something to a nurse about why wasn't he in a C-collar.

"Did you lose consciousness, sir?" the doctor was asking.

"Uh… I dunno.  Don' think so," he managed, and then the guy was rattling off more questions, impatient with him.  Slow the hell down, doc, slow the hell down.  Finally stopped asking questions for a while, cool fingers checking his neck, stick out your tongue, say aah, move your arm, squeeze my finger, tap knee, arm, leg, suddenly he was getting blood taken, Ow, one, two, three, four, five little vials, here, hold this in place, little cotton ball, band-aid, lie back, hospital bracelet attached to his wrist, Get a CT-head and neck said the doctor, stethoscope swinging, making Lennie dizzy.

"M'Okay," Lennie interrupted him.  "I'm fine."

"You're slurring your words, sir.  And you're having difficulty following what I'm saying."

"Tha's 'cause 'mdrunk," he explained patiently.  Just drunk, that's all.  Not hurt, not dying, not like Claire.

"I realize that, sir, and I'm sure you're fine otherwise, but we still have to take precautions.  Accident victims get a CT-head and -neck.  It may be a while, though.  Why don't you wait right here, I'll send a nurse when they're ready for you."

Lennie lay there, watched him leave, then realized he couldn't just wait.

"'Scuse me?" he approached a nurse.  "Th' lady I was brought in with?  Claire Kincaid?  How's she?"

"Sir, please lie down.  We'll let you know when we know."

"But-"

"You'll just have to wait and see, sir.  Now please, lie down.  Oh-" she looked at a tall woman approaching them, a uniform.  "I think the police will need to take your statement."

Woman looking him over, greying hair pulled back severely, didn't see a lotta older women in uniform.  She musta been the only one in her precinct when she started out.  She was asking him questions too, name, address, did you see the other vehicle, quickly at first, slowing down when she realized he really couldn't follow at her original speed.  And then she was done and gone too.

Back to the nurses.  How's Claire?  Where's Claire?  Damn it.  They wouldn't tell him anything.  Tried three times.  Damn it.

He should do something.  What?  Oh.  Needed to call McCoy.  Jack, Jack had to know.  That was his girl in there.  He'd wanna know.  But how could he call when he didn't know Jack's number?

He had Jack's number somewhere.  But where?

He was gonna need help.  He was gonna need somebody here to help him out.

But who?

Normally people in an accident call family, right?  Problem was, he didn't have any family – none he could call, anyway.  Cathy?  Not after this afternoon, 'I just thought it was me'.  Ex-wives?  Right.  His other daughter?  Didn't know her new number.

OK, who's next?

Maybe Rey.  Rey should know McCoy's number and Rey might be able to help out.  Rey was probably the closest he had to a person he could rely on.  Buddies at the 116, poker buddies, racing buddies, pool buddies, all those people might be closer than Rey but Rey would probably be more helpful.  And he was reliable, level-headed.  Good kid.

OK.  Rey.  Good thing he knew Rey's number by heart.

"Curtis residence," Rey's pretty little wife, whatsername, Debbie – no, not Debbie, Deborah.  Rey would probably take his head off if he called her Debbie.

"Deborah, hey, it's Lennie," oh shit he was still drunk, well hopefully she wouldn't notice, "c'n I talk to Rey?"

"He's not here, Lennie – are you OK?"

"Yeah, yeah, I been in an accident, but I'm fine," enunciate, enunciate, "I'm at th' hospital, St. Vincen's, and I need him to do something for me," OK, that sounded like it came out pretty clear.

"OK, he should be home soon," Deborah said.  "Do you want me to send him to the hospital as soon as he comes in?"  Level-headed girl, nice and calm.

"Yeah, tha' might be a good idea…"

"OK, I'll do that-"

"C'n you call 'im?"

"Yes, yes, I'll call him right now, he should be home any – oh!" Deborah broke off, talking to somebody.

"Lennie?"  Oh good.  Rey.

"Hey, Rey… lissen, I needja ta get over here, and I needja ta call McCoy."

"Lennie, what happened?" Rey's voice sounded real concerned.

"I'm fine, I'm fine, I walked away withou' a scratch," Lennie said.  OK, concentrate, be reassuring, be coherent, try not to slur your words too much.  "But Claire, she was drivin' me home an' she's not doin' so good, she might not make it.  An' I dunno McCoy's number."

"OK, I'll be right there," Rey assured him.  "And I'll call McCoy.  Hang tight," he hung up.

OK.  Rey was on his way.

Oh, this was not gonna be pretty.  Rey was gonna get here soon and he was still almost fall-down drunk, and Rey would be sure to notice.  Hell, the nurses noticed, the ambulance fellas noticed, the uni lady noticed, no way Rey wouldn't notice that Lennie was plastered.  Maybe calling Rey wasn't such a great idea.

Well, too late now.  Too late now, he'd already gone and done it, he'd fallen off the wagon, all the way down the Twelve Steps, stopped his sober count – what was it?  About 1350 days, last time he figured it out.  So much for that.

So now Rey was gonna know, and McCoy was gonna know, and soon after that Van Buren was gonna know, and that was it for his career.  And even if by some miracle he was allowed to stay on the force, he almost definitely would be outta Homicide and definitely, definitely out a partner.  No way Rey would wanna work with him now and even if he did, no way Debbie would let him.  Deborah.  Debbie's a cheerleader's name.  Deborah.

Too bad, him and Rey were just getting comfortable with each other.  Not a bad kid, just a little green, a little serious, and a little self-righteous.

Ooh, that wasn't gonna be pretty either.  Rey would probably give him a piece of his mind when he saw the state he was in.  He just hoped Rey wouldn't yell – that would probably really give him a headache.

What would Rey say?  Might as well think about that, amuse himself trying to guess what Rey would say, he had nothing else to do anyway except worry about Claire.

Claire, god, god, god, Claire.  She didn't look so good at all.  She was gonna die, and it was all his fault.  If he hadn'a been so drunk she wouldn'a driven him, she'd be fine.

Poor kid, poor Claire, people her age shouldn't die.  They did all the time, but they shouldn't.  Too young and pretty and good to die while drunken old assholes like him stayed alive.  Same car hit 'em both – how come she was dead or dying and he was OK?  Not a scratch.  Just fine.

"Sir?  They're ready for you to get your CT done," a nurse indicated a wheelchair for him.  He didn't need a wheelchair.

"I don' need a wheelchair."

"I'm sure you don't, sir, but it's hospital policy."

Damn.  Fine.  Wheelchair.

ooo000ooo

He'd come back from the CT, been poked and prodded some more, pretty unpleasant stuff, then told he was supposed to stay in the hospital until he sobered up.  So here he was, waiting to sober up.

"Lennie!" somebody called his name.  Lennie raised his head.  Rey, hurrying towards him.  "What happened?"

"Hey, Rey, they won't tell me anything.  They just said wait'n see, so I been waitin' 'n seein'," he tried to speak as clearly as possible, knowing there probably wasn't any point.  No, of course not, Rey was looking at him real worried-like.

"Lennie…"

What the hell. Not like he could keep this a secret.  "Yeah, yeah.  I was drinkin'." He sat down and put his head in his hands.  "I was drinkin', and Claire was driving me home, and so now here she is an' they won't tell me how she's doing."  OK, kid, lay into me, I know, I know, I fucked up big time.  Just get it over with and then find out about Claire for me, please.

There was a brief silence.

"OK, don't worry, I'll try and find out what's going on.  They probably wouldn't talk to you 'cause you're drunk," Rey said.  Drunk.  Not just drinking, but so drunk ER nurses didn't wanna have anything to do with him.  Rey said something else that Lennie didn't catch.  At least he was keeping his voice down.

"Yeah, yeah, I know, I'm drunk.  I fell off the wagon, OK?  I know," he leaned back and closed his eyes.

"Hey, it's OK, it's OK, Lennie, don't worry about it.  Stay here, I'll be back," Rey touched Lennie's shoulder and went to the front desk.  Now that was nice of him.  He was waiting until they knew about Claire before ripping into him.  OK, Junior.  Thanks.  Lennie kept his eyes closed.  Room spinning.   How much did he drink, anyway?  He used to have pretty good tolerance, but almost four years of sobriety could bring that down a notch or two.

Almost four years.  So much for that.  Start the count over.  Oh, what for?  What count?  Why bother?  If four years could go down the drain just like that, what was the point of trying again?  Not like he'd have any reason to try again after tonight.  The least awful thing that was going to happen was he was gonna lose his job.  The worst was he'd killed Claire.  Pretty little Claire Kincaid, it wouldn't be so bad if you were my kid, and he'd gone and killed her.

Somebody sat next to him.  Rey.  "OK, Claire's in the OR and I got a hold of McCoy.  He'll probably be here in a little while."  There was a slight pause.  "Are you OK?"

Are you OK.  What kinda question was that.  Sure, he was fine.  "Yeah, I'm fine.  No, hell, I'm not fine.  If I hadn't been drinking she wouldn't a given me a ride.  She'd be OK."

"You don't know that.  She coulda gotten in an accident on another street.  This wasn't your fault."

"I was drinking," he reminded Rey.

"This wasn't your fault, Lennie."

What?  Hang on.  Lennie opened his eyes to check it was still his partner next to him.  This wasn't your fault?  Where the hell did that come from?  That wasn't anything Rey Curtis would say.  Was Rey channeling somebody else?  "Hey Mr. I Never Did Drugs and I Never Did Nothin' Wrong, what's with you?"

"What?"

"How come you're not reading me the riot act?  What's with this 'It's not your fault'?  You know I'm not s'posed to drink, ever."

"Doesn't matter, the accident still wasn't your fault," Rey said more gently than Lennie had ever heard him speak to anybody other than little kids.

"I don't even know why I was drinkin'.  Yeah, I do, I'm a drunk," Lennie the Drunk, that was him.  "Agh, I'm a sorry excuse for a human being… can't even stay off the bottle." Too damn bright in here.  He closed his eyes.

"Yeah, you can.  You did it for years before today.  You made a mistake.  It happens."

OK, whatever, Rey was probably drunk too.  Funny, he didn't look it.  Soon enough he'd sober up and realize that this was a big deal.  That his drunken sot of a partner, Lennie 'You climbed out but the jury's still out' Briscoe, had fallen back in.  The jury might as well come back in.

Partner.  Yeah, not for long.  Wonder how long he'd wait before putting in a request for reassignment.  "You gonna ask for a new partner now?" Lennie made himself look at Rey.  Better than thinking about Claire.

"What?"

"You gonna ask for a new partner?"

"Why?"  Come on, Rey, stay with the program here, kid.  Rey's puzzled face suddenly cleared and he answered brusquely. "No, of course not.  Lennie, you made a mistake.  I'm not gonna ask for a new partner 'cause of one mistake.  Don't be stupid."

Huh?  I must be drunker than I thought, Lennie thought to himself.  Rey's cell phone rang.  Lennie closed his eyes again while Rey talked to somebody.

Hm.  Sounded heavy.  Oh, Deborah.  He was talking to Deborah.  Must be nice to have a little wifey to go home to, somebody to call you when you were in the hospital, somebody to give a damn what happened to you.  He'd like that, having family call him at the hospital.  Too bad he drank all that away.  Long, long time ago.

Right now Rey didn't sound like he appreciated his little lady.  Sounded like he was fighting with her.  Did Det. and Mrs. Perfect Marriage ever fight?  Did they ever get that human?

"Not now!  I'll call you later!" he hung up on her.

"That Deborah?" Lennie asked.  Never heard him hang up on Deborah before.

"Yeah."

"Sounded pissed off," he remarked.

"Just worried," Rey said dismissively.  "So what happened?"

"You mean the accident?"

"Yeah."

"She was drivin' me, and we went into an intersection an' then boom, crash, big noise, and I get out and there she is, blood all down her face.  Ambulance got there pretty fast – somebody musta seen and called it in," Lennie frowned miserably.  "I don't think she's gonna make it."  Not with all that blood running down her face.  Not with the car crushed the way it was.  Not with the ambulance people running and talking that fast.

"We don't know that yet.  They get the other driver?"

"Yeah, he was fine too.  Drunker'n me, if you can believe that."  At least that was something to be proud of.  He was less drunk than somebody who was driving.  Hey, you take what you can get.  "Took my statement, brought us here, checked me out, I'm jus' fine."

"OK." Rey said.  There was a brief silence.  "So what happened?" he asked gently.

"You mean why was I drinkin'?" Lennie closed his eyes.  Shit.  Why was he drinking.  Little angel, little devil, and stupid him, caught in the middle.  'I just assumed it was me.'  "'Cause I'm an alcoholic, and this 'recovering alcoholic' crap is just that, a loada crap." Excuses, excuses, the only real reason was that he was a drunk.

"Lennie, come on.  What happened today, how come you fell off today?"

What happened today.

Oh come on, kid, what kinda question was that?  Even if Rey didn't know about Cathy, what kinda question was that, what happened today?  Could he really be that unaffected by the fact that he'd helped kill a man?  "One less repeat offender," he'd said.  Kids these days.  Cold as ice.  Rey had probably done some work and then gone home and had a great day with his perfect family.  Who cared about Mickey Scott?

"You gotta ask me that?  You were there – oh I forgot, you don't have a problem with it.  You think it's just fine, 'cause it's what that bastard deserved, you wish you coulda turned the knobs yourself-" he was becoming indignant.  Rey, Cathy, both of 'em cold as ice, Claire the only kid who wasn't, and of course she was gonna be dead soon.  'Cause only the good die young.

"Hey, hey, calm down," Rey interrupted him soothingly, back to his 'talking to little kids' voice.  Great.  His baby partner, probably not even a gleam in his old man's eye the first time Lennie got drunk, was talking down to him.  Well, that's what happens when you're drunk, people talk down to you.  At least he wasn't yelling.  "OK, OK, so you were upset about the execution."

"Yeah, sorry, my kid might think I gotta heart of brick but I don't, it bugged me, OK?" he said defensively.  "An' I went back to dealin' with my problems the way I used ta.  What the hell, it's not like I'm gonna hurt my kids any more by bein' a drunk, right?"  He chuckled at himself.  "Not like that stopped me before anyway," he reflected.  And now there was no way to make up for it.  No way to make it up to Cathy, no way to make it up to Claire.

"Your daughter?"

"Yeah, had lunch with her.  Real nice time.  She hates me," he added.  Nice girl, terrific, smart, pretty, good job, only problem was she hated him.

"She doesn't hate you, Lennie," Rey corrected him automatically.

Right.  She doesn't hate you.  Rey, Claire, both of them telling him Cathy didn't hate him.  What did they know.  "Yeah, Mr. Perfect Husband and Daddy, you don't know anything about it.  She does.  I was a sorry excuse for a daddy then, and I still am now, an' she hates me, and she's got a right to."

What the hell did Rey know about letting down his kids and fucking up his life.  What did Claire know about it either.  'Course, when Claire told him his daughter didn't hate him, that was the last thing she said.  That was probably the very last thing Claire Kincaid would ever say to anybody.  How nice, that girl's last words were a lie.  Oops, better hope lightning didn't strike Rey down as he said them, or they'd be his last words too, and then wouldn't Debbie – Deborah – be pissed at him.

"OK, Lennie, relax," Rey said, "Just tell me what happened."

Yeah, OK, what happened.  What happened?  "So I got together with some friendsa mine, nice time, 'cept they were jokin' about Scott," Lennie's just upset 'cause he didn't get to shoot the SOB himself.  Right.  "And then I went to the OTB place an' my daughter's there.  You know, Cathy.  An' we had lunch.  An' we had a nice conversation," she beat the doctor's butts at poker, straight draw, atta girl.    Warm glow.  "An' it was nice."  And it was.  And then… "An' then it all went to crap.  An' I don't even know how," Lennie paused.  OK, that was enough.  "An' you know what?  I don't wanna talk about it."

"OK," Rey said gently.  "OK.  Let's just wait till McCoy gets here."

"He's pretty ripped too," Lennie figured Rey might as well know.  EADA Jack McCoy, toasted.  Except it was OK for him.

"McCoy?"

"Least, he was a couple hours ago.  When he left the bar."  When he said To hell with her.  Ouch.  To hell with her.  What a thing to say about Claire.

"You saw him?"

"Yeah.  Went into a bar, and there 'e is, tanked outta his gourd.  He was waitin' for Claire, but she stood 'im up.  He waited for her all day.  So he got a cab.  Then Claire comes along.  Told her Jack turned inta a pumpkin.  Mike thought she was my kid," Lennie laughed softly.

Yeah, that woulda been nice.  Claire, his kid.  Oh, not so nice now.  Imagine if that was his kid in there, dying.  God, what would he do if that really was his kid, dying or dead.  Either one of his daughters, whether he got along with them or not, at least they weren't dead.  That would be the worst thing in the entire world, having your kid die.  That would be Hell.  He'd dive into a bottle so deep he'd never come up for air again, wouldn't want to.

God, Claire's parents were gonna be here.  What could he say to them?  How could you possibly make up for killing somebody's kid?

Man, he thought he had bad shit on his conscience before.  He'd ruined Cathy's life, but he'd ended Claire's.  As sure as he'd killed Mickey Scott, he'd killed Claire Kincaid.  How could you possibly ever make up for something like that?

ooo000ooo

A little while later, McCoy was there, and then Claire's parents.  Mother, stepfather, lover.  The three people with the most reason to hate Lennie, rip into him for having done this to Claire.  For some reason none of them lay into him, they just left him alone.  That was nice of 'em.  Probably waiting to see what happened to Claire.  What they should blame him for.  Would it be (a) a booboo? (b) serious injury and permanent damage? (c) coma? or (d) death?  Lennie was betting on option 'd', the big D, Death.  Well, not betting on, but definitely assuming.

Homicide detective, doncha know.  He knew aall about dead bodies.  His specialty.  He was better when they were already dead.

Better find something else to do now.  Couldn't be a homicide detective if you were kicked off the force.  Maybe a PI?  Security guard, Twinkie cop?

What for?

What was the point?

He could really use a drink right about now.

ooo000ooo

Hated hospitals.  Spent way too much time in them.  Victims, families, death, grief, lights way too bright for an old drunk to bear.

ooo000ooo

Claire's mom, Linda.  Nice lady.  Stepfather, Mac.  Nice guy.  McCoy helping them try to get information from the hospital staff.  Not much there.  Still in the OR.  Still no word.

Linda.  Little tiny woman, big black eyes.  Looked a lot like Claire.  Looked about McCoy's age.  Looked like that was who McCoy shoulda been sleeping with, not a kid like Claire.  What could McCoy and Claire possibly have in common?

Not that Lennie didn't notice pretty young women, but he didn't try for them.  McCoy, he noticed, he tried, he succeeded, lucky bastard.

Not so lucky right now.  Lennie couldn't even look at him.  How could you say sorry for taking away somebody's girl like that?  Not like he stole her from him, nothing that minor.  Nope, he went and killed her.

ooo000ooo

Out of the blue, McCoy asked Rey "Did you get a statement from the garbage collector in the Frunt case?"

"No, not yet.  It was our day off yesterday," Rey replied.  "We were gonna go talk to him tomorrow."

"Don't worry about it, it's not that important," McCoy said dismissively, and left to get himself another coffee.

"Hell of a day off," Lennie muttered.

"You said you had lunch with your daughter?" Rey asked.

"Yeah," Lennie said, musing.  Lunch with Cathy.  What a treat.  "Told me I was funnier when I was drunk.  And I'm better with people when they're already dead."

Rey winced.  Yeah.  Sounded even worse when he repeated it to somebody else.  Sounded so bad, actually, that he could really use a drink or two to numb it away.

No wonder his daughter hated him.  After all that had happened, after he'd hurt Cathy and killed Claire by being a drunk… all he really wanted was another drink.

ooo000ooo

Too long in this damn place.  Head starting to clear a bit, but still going over the same worn thoughts, like he was running around a track or something.  Right.  The closest he'd come to running around a track was in his head.  He wouldn't be caught dead doing it for real, as exercise.  Good thing he'd been partnered with young go-getters who could do the physical part of their job, chasing down suspects, while he huffed and puffed behind them.  Mike, Rey, both of them in pretty good shape.

Ah well, so much for that.  Not like it would matter if he was in shape any more.  Not like he'd be running down perps any more.  What a way to end your career.  That thought was so depressing he wished he could wash it away with a vodka or two.  No he didn't, he corrected himself automatically.  Yes, he did.

ooo000ooo

"I wish she'd come to dinner more often," Linda said softly, then sighed as Mac put his arm around her shoulders and drew her in close.  Jack gazed at them for a moment, wondering if there was anything he could say or do to comfort her, then cleared his throat and picked up another magazine.  Nobody was reassuring themselves that Claire was gonna be OK, Lennie realized.  Nobody was saying "Don't worry, she'll come to dinner again soon," or anything like that.  They all knew better.  Linda and Mac were probably hoping against hope, and probably McCoy was too, but really, they all knew.

Suddenly he needed to get up and do something.

"Anybody want another coffee?" he asked.  That came out pretty clear.  Maybe he wasn't so drunk any more.  Mac nodded, Linda and Jack shook their heads.  "Rey?"

"I'll come with you," Rey stood too.  They approached the coffee machine.

"Wish my daughters would come to dinner too, except it's not so great when they do," Lennie muttered, putting coins in the coffee machine.

"Couldn't have been all bad though.  You said it started out good," Rey pointed out.  Rey, Rey, Rey.  You really don't know dicky bird about dysfunctional families, do you?

"Yeah.  It started nice.  Talked about poker," coffee black, no sugar for him, and Mac took sugar but no cream.  "Then she said she didn't ever wanna get married – 'cause it sure worked for me – then she said she always thought she was the reason I started drinking, then she said now she remembered why she hated me.  That part wasn't so nice."  OK, Junior?  Don't try to comfort me, 'it couldn't have been all bad'.  Rey looked down, accepting the implied rebuke.

"Lennie… I'm sorry."

"Yeah, me too," Lennie took the two cups and returned to the waiting area.

Rey trailed behind Lennie thoughtfully.  What must it be like to hear that kind of thing from your own daughter?  Hell, that's what it must be like.  No wonder Lennie had gotten drunk.  He'd get drunk too.

ooo000ooo

The doctor came and checked him out, pronounced him fit to go.  Not drunk any more.  Still felt a bit intoxicated, but not drunk, and the CT was fine, all the tests were fine, he was good to go.  Don't drive, call your family doctor if you experience dizziness, blurred vision, blah blah blah…

ooo000ooo

She had been in for how many hours now?  He'd asked Rey what time he'd come in, and Rey had said sometime around midnight.  So that would make it about three hours in the OR.  That wasn't that long, actually.  Felt like longer, because of the lateness of the hour, the time disorientation from the booze, the silence of them all, Linda, Mac, McCoy, Rey.  Felt like days.  But three hours in the OR wasn't that long.

Was that a good sign, that she'd been in three hours?  If she was as close to death as he'd thought when he first saw her, they wouldn't still be trying to save her, would they?

Or would they still be trying even though they were just saving a vegetable at this point?  Was she going to be alive, but pretty much gone?  Better off dead?

ooo000ooo

"She came to see me this afternoon," Mac said out of the blue.  None of them had said much about Claire, beyond the bare facts and Linda's wish that she could come to dinner more often.  There hadn't been much talking.  Mac and McCoy had started a desultory conversation about some legal issue going before the Supreme Court right now, to pass the time, but neither of them had been particularly interested in it and they'd petered off.  And now suddenly Mac had blurted this out.  Linda looked away, apparently having already heard about Claire's visit.

"Did she?"  McCoy asked.

"Yes.  Came into my class and stayed for a while afterwards."  McCoy nodded, impassive as he had been for most of this night.  McCoy hadn't looked terribly concerned to Lennie at first, but as Lennie's head cleared he'd been able to notice that he wasn't as blasé as he seemed at first glance.  That he was leafing through magazines without really seeing them, that he was forgetting to answer sometimes when one of them spoke to him, that he would get a distant look in his eyes and suddenly look old, weary beyond belief, and worried.  Not just worried, scared.

"She wanted to talk… she told me about the execution." McCoy heaved a deep sigh, closing his eyes.  "We argued.  I don't think I was very helpful…" Mac said softly, speaking almost to himself.  "She… she said that what she'd seen would be with her for the rest of her life."  Linda stood up suddenly and Mac looked up, startled, as she walked off, then quickly hurried to follow her.  Lennie and Rey glanced at each other as McCoy gazed after Mac and Linda and heaved another sigh, then wearily rested his elbows on his knees and put his head in hands.

It would be with her for the rest of her life.  It probably already had been.

ooo000ooo

McCoy was asking the nurse something.  Where's the chapel.

Why would McCoy want to know?

McCoy was going to the chapel.  Never figured McCoy for a religious person, but now was probably as good a time as any for him to pray.  Lennie felt a wave of remorse, knowing he was the cause of McCoy's pain.  Well, not really the cause, it wasn't like he'd actually killed Claire, but he was the reason she was in there right now.  The reason McCoy was going to the chapel.  What was that song, 'Goin' to the chapel and we're/Gonna get ma-a-arried…' Didn't know if McCoy and Claire ever woulda gone to that kind of chapel together, neither of them seemed like the marrying kind, but they definitely weren't going to now.  No, McCoy was going alone.  Either to pray for the impossible, for Claire to be OK, or to pray for strength to accept her death.

Rey was watching McCoy walk off with a look Lennie'd never seen on his face, an introspective, sorrowful look.  No idea why.  Come to think of it, why wasn't Rey going to the chapel himself?  Rey was the most devout person he'd ever met, like it was part of his identity.  Church and prayer and God were part of his life.  How he got through the day, how he raised his family, the basis of his belief system, his comfort, his strength, there all the time.  It was like the guy had a personal line to God.  And yet he hadn't made a move to the chapel or even crossed himself, and Lennie knew he liked and respected Claire Kincaid.  He should have been praying for her.  Instead he was watching McCoy walk off, then looking down, twisting his wedding ring, sighing and getting himself another cup of bad coffee.

Huh.

Lennie wished he was a praying man himself.  But he'd never really been much into religion.  It had been something to endure when he was a kid, when his mom was conscientiously bringing him up Catholic so the relatives who'd had a fit when she married a Jew wouldn't disown her, but she wasn't a big believer and neither was he.  And once he was past Confirmation, he'd sort of opted out with her blessing.  And then he'd married Jewish both times himself and half-heartedly gone along to synagogue a few times with his wives, neither one of whom was a big believer either.  Not opposed to it, just never really seeing much point in it.

He was more into the Church of Jack Daniels and the Synagogue of Smirnoff than anything else.  And he wouldn't have minded worshipping at either of those right now.

It was one of the things that had made AA so hard.  One of the things he'd had to fight against, his own innate agnosticism, when he was climbing the Twelve Steps.  Many of them involved asking God for help, recognizing that God, however you thought of Him, was the only one who could help you.  Step Two, come to believe that a Power greater than yourself can restore you to sanity.  Step Three, make a decision to turn your will and your life over to the care of God as you understand Him.  On and on, God, God, God with a capital G.  Not his thing, normally.

One of the things he'd have to fight again, he supposed, assuming he wanted to climb those steps again.

Did he?

ooo000ooo

Head clear.  Pretty much sober.  Man, he hated hospitals.

Man, he hated being sober.

How sick was that.  All of this caused by his drinking, and all he really wanted was to have another drink.  Damn it.  He should've been in the OR, not Claire.  Claire wouldn't be out here selfishly wishing she could get drunk if he was at death's door.

McCoy had come back.  Linda and Mac had left briefly, whether for the chapel or just to get out of the ER, he didn't know.  Almost four.  'The hour before dawn, cops and roosters'.  And the parents of small children, Rey had added once.  Did Rey wake up with his kids at night?  Walk them back to sleep before dawn?  Did Jack, when his daughter was a baby?  He could picture Rey; he couldn't picture Jack, but you never knew.  He himself hardly ever had.  That had been his wife's job.  Once in a while she'd pushed him out of bed and he'd gone, complaining that he had to work the next day and needed his rest.  And she'd snapped back that she had to take care of the kids the next day and needed her rest too.  But it didn't happen too often.  She usually didn't care to fight over it.

And nights before a day off, when he couldn't have used the excuse of work the next day, he'd often been sleeping off a bender.

Yeah, he'd been a great daddy.

All of them, all of them gathered here, all parents of daughters.  Him, Jack, Rey, Linda, Mac, like a convention.  And he'd be willing to bet not one of them had fucked up or would ever fuck up their daughter's lives the way he had.  That not one of them had ever or would ever hear their daughter tell them she hated them.  With as much reason as his did.

That not one of them would deal with it by going back and doing exactly what had hurt their daughter in the first place.

That not one of them would be able to put someone else's daughter at death's door, and then spend a big part of a vigil for that daughter wishing he could just get drunk again.

ooo000ooo

Doctor coming.

Damn.

They could all tell.  Linda's downcast eyes and pale face, Mac's hand covering his mouth, McCoy's suddenly blank expression, Rey's faint sigh.  They could all tell.  Doctors don't look like that if it's good news.

He and Rey remained sitting as McCoy, Linda and Mac stood and listened to the doctor.  How many times had he delivered pretty much the same words the doctor was saying now?  I'm sorry to have to tell you, your daughter, son, wife, husband, sister, brother…  How many times had he witnessed the reactions of loved ones?  Tears, denial, anger, numbness… Lennie closed his eyes briefly, unwilling to witness Linda's grief, Mac's, McCoy's, as they processed the doctor's words, which he could barely hear.    Too much damage… internal hemmoraging… did our best.

Opened his eyes again.  He had caused this.  He shouldn't hide from it.  Don't be a coward.  A poem he sometimes thought of flitted through the back of Lennie's mind, a poem about a woman who is told her husband has been lost at sea.

It took the sea a thousand years
A thousand years to trace
The granite features of this cliff,
In crag and scarp and base
It took the sea an hour one night,
An hour of storm to place
The sculpture of those granite seams,
Upon a woman's face

The things that you store in your memory.  A girlfriend in high school whose dad was a naval officer had loved that poem with the dramatic morbidity of a teenage girl.  And he'd remembered it, years later, as a Homicide detective, as the bearer of bad tidings.  Linda's face looked like that now.  McCoy's too.  Sculpture of those granite seams, etched in as they listened to the doctor wordlessly.  Living will… life support… organ donation.

Lennie closed his eyes.  God, I'm sorry.  Claire, I'm so sorry.  If I'd had more self-control you wouldn't be where you are.

Claire, I'm sorry.

God, I'd give anything for a drink right now.

Rey stood up and approached McCoy as the doctor left.  He exchanged a few quiet words with McCoy, then came back to Lennie's side.  McCoy looked away, eyes flat and expressionless, lost in thought.

"Let's go, Lennie," Rey said quietly.

Lennie stood and hesitantly approached Claire's parents.  He opened his mouth, not knowing what to say.  How to express his sorrow at having caused this.

"Lennie.  Thank you for staying with us," Linda said softly before he could speak, and Mac nodded, holding her close.  She turned to Rey, "Thank you too, Rey."

"I'm so sorry for your loss," Rey murmured, "If there's anything we can do…"

"Thank you.  Thank you both.  Go get some rest," she said, patting Lennie's arm.

"Linda, I…" Lennie began.

"It's OK.  Don't blame yourself, please.  It wasn't your fault," she gave his arm a squeeze, then she and Mac turned away.  He and Rey left the hospital as Mac, Linda, and McCoy followed the nurse inside, to sign the necessary papers and say goodbye to Claire.

ooo000ooo

Back home.  Rey had insisted on going home with him, not that he'd put up a fight.  Not much said on the way to his place.

"You gonna be OK?" Rey asked.

"Yeah."

"Have some water before you-"

"I know how to deal with hangovers, thanks," Lennie interrupted him quietly, getting some aspirin while Rey got him a glass of water.  He'd had plenty of experience.  Four years since the last time he'd done this, but aspirin and water before bed wasn't that hard to remember.

"How are you feeling?" Rey asked.

"Fine," Lennie answered.  So quiet, everything quiet, their voices, the city, the apartment building… the hour before dawn, cops and roosters and people coming back from an all-night vigil at a hospital.

"I'll, uh, I'll give Van Buren a call tomorrow, let her know we'll be taking the day off," Rey said.

"Yeah."  Let her know I fell off the wagon, Lennie thought as he cut off the hospital bracelet.  Rey hadn't yelled at him all night long, and it looked like he wouldn't.  Who would've guessed Junior was capable of compassion for somebody who wasn't a child or a crime victim.  Although he supposed he was a crime victim – he'd been in an accident, and the other driver was drunk, and that made it a crime and him and Claire the victims.

No, Claire was the victim.  He was just a drunk along for the ride.

Whatever.  Whatever Rey's reasons for not being pissed off at him, they both knew he'd messed up badly and Rey would have to tell Van Buren.  And after that it was only a matter of time before he was out of the force.  Not too high a price to pay for his fuck-up.  Claire had paid a much higher price.

"You gonna be OK?" Rey asked again.

"Yeah."  He hadn't been able to look him in the eye for most of the night, and he still couldn't.  This kinder gentler Rey was even tougher to take than what he thought he'd be getting.  At least a righteously pissed off Rey would be something to react against, maybe make a few sarcastic comments to deflect his scorn.  He was helpless before solicitousness and compassion.

"Go home. Get some rest," he told Rey.  "And, uh… thanks."

"Don't mention it," Rey said.  "You get some rest too."

"Right.  Good night."

"Good night," Rey left the apartment.

Lennie sighed.  Alone.  As usual.

He wearily got into bed.

What a night.  What a couple of nights.

Vodka would make this all feel better.

He rolled over, groaned.  No.  No, no, no, he'd just caused a person's death because of alcohol, how could he want it again?

Go to sleep.  Just go to sleep, and make it all go away.  And don't even start to think about tomorrow.

ooo000ooo

Author's Note: The poem is by Newfoundland poet E.J. Pratt.