Leap of Faith
Summary: This very short story, a continuation of "The Road Home", was inspired by "Fatal Edition."
Disclaimer: Early Edition characters belong to whoever created them. No copyright infringement intended. No profit is being made. Some of the dialogue that appears in this story is not mine, but belongs to the writer of the Early Edition episode "Fatal Edition".
Author: Tracy Diane Miller E-mail address: tdmiller82@hotmail.com
Leap of Faith
When he walked through the door of the loft last night, his steps heavy from sore muscles and exhaustion, he briefly hesitated to savor the moment as his eyes gazed around the room. The loft, his home, was the most beautiful place he had ever seen. He had always taken the loft for granted. But after spending nearly forty-eight hours as a fugitive, heart pounding as he eluded the police and enduring the harshness of the natural elements as he slept on the street, he saw the loft through more appreciative eyes. The path to innocence had led him towards the road home.
It was sheer emotional and physical exhaustion, his only companions during those difficult days and nights that had enabled him to sleep last night.
"Meow." Thump.
And the advent of this new day meant the reaffirmation of his role as an unsung hero. After his ordeal, he even saw The Paper in a more positive light. No longer was The Paper a jealous and possessive mistress who demanded his undivided attention and undying devotion. Now, being able to go out there, to help people as a free man, filled him with gratitude. More than once during his nightmare he wondered what would have happened if The Paper had a story where someone (unconnected to the Scanlon murder) needed his help. Would he have risked exposure then? He knew that he wouldn't have been able to ignore someone who needed his help regardless of the consequences to himself. Thankfully, The Paper hadn't asked him to make that choice.
He proceeded to the door and opened it. The cat sat regally on top of The Paper. "It's good to see you, buddy." He greeted the feline. "And thanks." He added belatedly remembering the cat's appearance in that warehouse with The Paper allowing him to escape only moments before Armstrong and the other police officers arrived. He was the hunted fox to their hungry bloodhounds. And any cunning he possessed had been whetted by his innate survival instincts.
He bent over and slid The Paper out from underneath the cat. The cat ran into the loft. He stared briefly at the headline before closing the door. The headline screamed in big black letters: "Hobson Cleared as Murder for Hire Operation Rocks Chicago Police Department."
Then it all came rushing back, like hostile waves taking revenge on an innocent shore. The images were like a Technicolor nightmare in slow motion: Scanlon. The Cicero train yard. The lie detector test. A jail cell. Armstrong. Joe. Diaz. Murder for hire.
And Brigatti. Not the Brigatti he remembered from the honeymoon suite at The Hilton. That Brigatti had exposed a gentle, vulnerable side, and a quiet femininity. Yet, it was this femininity mingled with a sizzling passion that had unexpectedly erupted from a volcano of cynicism and mistrust. That kiss they shared may have started out as an illusion engineered to catch a thief. But somewhere the lines had blurred between the charade and the reality, between Toni and Larry and he and Brigatti. Larry may have started out kissing Toni in that jewelry store, but it was his lips that found Brigatti's lips wonderfully rapturous. They had started something, that much he knew. He felt something. He thought that she did, too.
"What do you expect me to do?"
"Help me." He pleaded, his mud green eyes dancing with fear. He was a desperate man. And she was his last hope.
"I can't do that."
And that was it. She didn't help him. Hope, so fragile, so elusive, had fluttered like an unseen apparition out of the window. She let him down when he needed her the most. The hurt he felt at that moment was indescribable.
But somehow he still trusted her, trusted her to save his life. That's why he had faxed her that information about the murder for hire operation.
He read the story aloud: "Hobson Cleared as Murder for Hire Operation Rocks Chicago Police Department. Local bar owner Gary Hobson was cleared in the murder of Pulitzer Prize Sun-Times columnist Frank Scanlon. Hobson, who became a fugitive when he escaped from custody before his arraignment on murder charges, was exonerated when he saved the lives of Chicago Police Detectives Paul Armstrong and Antonia Brigatti. The Chicago P.D. has confirmed that Scanlon's death was connected to a murder for hire operation implicating a member of the department. It has not yet been confirmed, however, whether charges are expected to be filed against Hobson for his escape from custody."
He flinched. Then he said a silent prayer that the police would want to put the whole embarrassing mess behind them just as he wanted to put it behind him by not filing any further charges against him.
The Paper was mercifully lenient today with only a few simple stories. After taking a quick shower, he dressed in a white turtleneck sweater and blue jeans and headed downstairs to the bar.
Quiet.
It seemed as if McGinty's slept along with most of Chicago.
The chairs were piled neatly on top of the tables. He proceeded to the front door and unlocked it. He knew that Marissa often came in early. He also knew that she had wanted to talk last night. He suspected that she would be in soon to talk (or to listen). As he turned his back and walked towards the tables, the front door opened. Instinctively, he turned back around. That was when he saw her.
It wasn't Marissa, though.
He swallowed hard. She looked beautiful, there was no denying that. Her dark hair shimmered as the rays of the sun rained light through the eager windows. Her eyes, if they were truly the windows to her soul, were usually protectively guarded. But right now, at this moment, those eyes appeared open and receptive, searching for something. Something he wasn't quite sure of, at least not yet.
"Brigatti." He whispered.
She smiled, but that smile was fleeting. He had seen that same smile before on that day she came to collect the wedding ring from their undercover operation. And it was the same smile he saw last night before he got into the cab.
And then the smile was gone.
"How are you, Hobson?"
"I'm okay. You?" He said awkwardly.
"I'm fine." She answered with an equal amount of awkwardness.
A brief, but uncomfortable silence.
"Would you like anything? Coffee?" He offered.
"No, thanks."
Another brief silence.
"How's Armstrong?"
"He'll be fine. It was his pride that was hurt more than anything. He and Ari were partners for over a year. Paul really trusted him. It's not easy when someone you trust lets you down."
She studied him for a moment as she tried to quiet the stirring sensation that she felt within the pit of her stomach. She wished that she could dismiss that sensation as hunger, but she knew that a desire for food had not excited her stomach.
Even when he had come to her townhouse, his face unshaved, his hair concealed under that cap, and his eyes tormented and afraid, he still looked so handsome. He had come to her for help, had laid his life in her hands, but she had turned him away. How could she have done that?
"Hobson, I just wanted to let you know that there won't be any further charges filed against you." She revealed.
Why couldn't she just say what she had come there to say?
"Thank you. That's a relief. I was afraid that I would have something else hanging over my head." He replied.
Why couldn't he just say what he wanted to say?
"Well, I should be going. I just wanted to deliver the news in person. See you around, Hobson." The tone in her voice was that detached, manufactured cop tone. It was a tone that she used whenever she didn't want anyone to come close to piercing the veil that would expose her vulnerabilities. She headed for the door, but hesitated. She turned back around to face him. Their eyes locked.
"Hobson?"
"Yes?"
"Why did you fax me that information about the murder for hire operation after I turned you away when you came to my townhouse?"
"You mean why did I still trust you?" He probed. He had laid his cards on the table. "Because....because I had to believe that you couldn't believe that I was capable of murder despite what all that evidence against me was saying. And I needed to believe in you. I guess sometime you just have to take a leap of faith."
"Was that the only reason?" She asked.
"What other reason would there have been?" He challenged. He wasn't even sure what he expected or hoped that she would say.
Another brief silence.
She wanted to say so much, for once to express her feelings without pondering repercussions. When he came to her townhouse, he came asking a friend for help. Instead, it was a cop who denied him. Still, she couldn't dial that phone number. She couldn't call for back up. And even as she had her gun trained on him as if he were a dangerous felon, she knew that she couldn't shoot him. That was why she allowed him to leave her townhouse. And when Paul had given the word that if Hobson made a move to shoot him, her heart sank with the fear that he would be hurt.
Why couldn't she just tell him how she felt about him? Why couldn't she just take a leap of faith?
He studied her, but her eyes remained silent. Then the room fell victim to a deafening silence once again.
Then the moment was lost.
"I really should be going." She said, breaking the silence. "Take care of yourself, Hobson."
"You too."
He watched as she walked out of the door, knowing that so many words remained unspoken between them.
A heart is so fragile, yet it is also so strong. But a heart often creates a protective wall around itself. Sometimes, it takes a leap of faith to knock down that wall and to allow someone inside.
The End.
Summary: This very short story, a continuation of "The Road Home", was inspired by "Fatal Edition."
Disclaimer: Early Edition characters belong to whoever created them. No copyright infringement intended. No profit is being made. Some of the dialogue that appears in this story is not mine, but belongs to the writer of the Early Edition episode "Fatal Edition".
Author: Tracy Diane Miller E-mail address: tdmiller82@hotmail.com
Leap of Faith
When he walked through the door of the loft last night, his steps heavy from sore muscles and exhaustion, he briefly hesitated to savor the moment as his eyes gazed around the room. The loft, his home, was the most beautiful place he had ever seen. He had always taken the loft for granted. But after spending nearly forty-eight hours as a fugitive, heart pounding as he eluded the police and enduring the harshness of the natural elements as he slept on the street, he saw the loft through more appreciative eyes. The path to innocence had led him towards the road home.
It was sheer emotional and physical exhaustion, his only companions during those difficult days and nights that had enabled him to sleep last night.
"Meow." Thump.
And the advent of this new day meant the reaffirmation of his role as an unsung hero. After his ordeal, he even saw The Paper in a more positive light. No longer was The Paper a jealous and possessive mistress who demanded his undivided attention and undying devotion. Now, being able to go out there, to help people as a free man, filled him with gratitude. More than once during his nightmare he wondered what would have happened if The Paper had a story where someone (unconnected to the Scanlon murder) needed his help. Would he have risked exposure then? He knew that he wouldn't have been able to ignore someone who needed his help regardless of the consequences to himself. Thankfully, The Paper hadn't asked him to make that choice.
He proceeded to the door and opened it. The cat sat regally on top of The Paper. "It's good to see you, buddy." He greeted the feline. "And thanks." He added belatedly remembering the cat's appearance in that warehouse with The Paper allowing him to escape only moments before Armstrong and the other police officers arrived. He was the hunted fox to their hungry bloodhounds. And any cunning he possessed had been whetted by his innate survival instincts.
He bent over and slid The Paper out from underneath the cat. The cat ran into the loft. He stared briefly at the headline before closing the door. The headline screamed in big black letters: "Hobson Cleared as Murder for Hire Operation Rocks Chicago Police Department."
Then it all came rushing back, like hostile waves taking revenge on an innocent shore. The images were like a Technicolor nightmare in slow motion: Scanlon. The Cicero train yard. The lie detector test. A jail cell. Armstrong. Joe. Diaz. Murder for hire.
And Brigatti. Not the Brigatti he remembered from the honeymoon suite at The Hilton. That Brigatti had exposed a gentle, vulnerable side, and a quiet femininity. Yet, it was this femininity mingled with a sizzling passion that had unexpectedly erupted from a volcano of cynicism and mistrust. That kiss they shared may have started out as an illusion engineered to catch a thief. But somewhere the lines had blurred between the charade and the reality, between Toni and Larry and he and Brigatti. Larry may have started out kissing Toni in that jewelry store, but it was his lips that found Brigatti's lips wonderfully rapturous. They had started something, that much he knew. He felt something. He thought that she did, too.
"What do you expect me to do?"
"Help me." He pleaded, his mud green eyes dancing with fear. He was a desperate man. And she was his last hope.
"I can't do that."
And that was it. She didn't help him. Hope, so fragile, so elusive, had fluttered like an unseen apparition out of the window. She let him down when he needed her the most. The hurt he felt at that moment was indescribable.
But somehow he still trusted her, trusted her to save his life. That's why he had faxed her that information about the murder for hire operation.
He read the story aloud: "Hobson Cleared as Murder for Hire Operation Rocks Chicago Police Department. Local bar owner Gary Hobson was cleared in the murder of Pulitzer Prize Sun-Times columnist Frank Scanlon. Hobson, who became a fugitive when he escaped from custody before his arraignment on murder charges, was exonerated when he saved the lives of Chicago Police Detectives Paul Armstrong and Antonia Brigatti. The Chicago P.D. has confirmed that Scanlon's death was connected to a murder for hire operation implicating a member of the department. It has not yet been confirmed, however, whether charges are expected to be filed against Hobson for his escape from custody."
He flinched. Then he said a silent prayer that the police would want to put the whole embarrassing mess behind them just as he wanted to put it behind him by not filing any further charges against him.
The Paper was mercifully lenient today with only a few simple stories. After taking a quick shower, he dressed in a white turtleneck sweater and blue jeans and headed downstairs to the bar.
Quiet.
It seemed as if McGinty's slept along with most of Chicago.
The chairs were piled neatly on top of the tables. He proceeded to the front door and unlocked it. He knew that Marissa often came in early. He also knew that she had wanted to talk last night. He suspected that she would be in soon to talk (or to listen). As he turned his back and walked towards the tables, the front door opened. Instinctively, he turned back around. That was when he saw her.
It wasn't Marissa, though.
He swallowed hard. She looked beautiful, there was no denying that. Her dark hair shimmered as the rays of the sun rained light through the eager windows. Her eyes, if they were truly the windows to her soul, were usually protectively guarded. But right now, at this moment, those eyes appeared open and receptive, searching for something. Something he wasn't quite sure of, at least not yet.
"Brigatti." He whispered.
She smiled, but that smile was fleeting. He had seen that same smile before on that day she came to collect the wedding ring from their undercover operation. And it was the same smile he saw last night before he got into the cab.
And then the smile was gone.
"How are you, Hobson?"
"I'm okay. You?" He said awkwardly.
"I'm fine." She answered with an equal amount of awkwardness.
A brief, but uncomfortable silence.
"Would you like anything? Coffee?" He offered.
"No, thanks."
Another brief silence.
"How's Armstrong?"
"He'll be fine. It was his pride that was hurt more than anything. He and Ari were partners for over a year. Paul really trusted him. It's not easy when someone you trust lets you down."
She studied him for a moment as she tried to quiet the stirring sensation that she felt within the pit of her stomach. She wished that she could dismiss that sensation as hunger, but she knew that a desire for food had not excited her stomach.
Even when he had come to her townhouse, his face unshaved, his hair concealed under that cap, and his eyes tormented and afraid, he still looked so handsome. He had come to her for help, had laid his life in her hands, but she had turned him away. How could she have done that?
"Hobson, I just wanted to let you know that there won't be any further charges filed against you." She revealed.
Why couldn't she just say what she had come there to say?
"Thank you. That's a relief. I was afraid that I would have something else hanging over my head." He replied.
Why couldn't he just say what he wanted to say?
"Well, I should be going. I just wanted to deliver the news in person. See you around, Hobson." The tone in her voice was that detached, manufactured cop tone. It was a tone that she used whenever she didn't want anyone to come close to piercing the veil that would expose her vulnerabilities. She headed for the door, but hesitated. She turned back around to face him. Their eyes locked.
"Hobson?"
"Yes?"
"Why did you fax me that information about the murder for hire operation after I turned you away when you came to my townhouse?"
"You mean why did I still trust you?" He probed. He had laid his cards on the table. "Because....because I had to believe that you couldn't believe that I was capable of murder despite what all that evidence against me was saying. And I needed to believe in you. I guess sometime you just have to take a leap of faith."
"Was that the only reason?" She asked.
"What other reason would there have been?" He challenged. He wasn't even sure what he expected or hoped that she would say.
Another brief silence.
She wanted to say so much, for once to express her feelings without pondering repercussions. When he came to her townhouse, he came asking a friend for help. Instead, it was a cop who denied him. Still, she couldn't dial that phone number. She couldn't call for back up. And even as she had her gun trained on him as if he were a dangerous felon, she knew that she couldn't shoot him. That was why she allowed him to leave her townhouse. And when Paul had given the word that if Hobson made a move to shoot him, her heart sank with the fear that he would be hurt.
Why couldn't she just tell him how she felt about him? Why couldn't she just take a leap of faith?
He studied her, but her eyes remained silent. Then the room fell victim to a deafening silence once again.
Then the moment was lost.
"I really should be going." She said, breaking the silence. "Take care of yourself, Hobson."
"You too."
He watched as she walked out of the door, knowing that so many words remained unspoken between them.
A heart is so fragile, yet it is also so strong. But a heart often creates a protective wall around itself. Sometimes, it takes a leap of faith to knock down that wall and to allow someone inside.
The End.