The Wind Cries Mommy - Part 3
Buckets of Rain
Note: First, I must apologize for my allusions to The Pretender, however small. I couldn't resist.
In other news, all characters belong to Tom Kring, NBC, and everybody in between. But you knew that. On with the show!
~~~~~
"Well," said the nurse. "Your heart rate is still a little slow, and."
"Don't feed me that. I'm fine. I feel fine."
"We're just keeping you under observation, Dr. Cavanaugh. Brevital and alcohol don't combine well."
"Are you saying you think I did this to myself?" Jordan sat up a bit.
"Well, I wasn't, but now that you mention it," the nurse flipped through the charts, "you were in here previously for another similar."
"Let me talk to a doctor," Jordan cut icily in.
"You are a doctor," pointed out the unfazed nurse, who made a few notes, and put the clipboard back into its slot on the door.
"But you aren't. Let me talk to a doctor," she insisted. The nurse nodded, and left the room. She had other patients to attend to, after all.
~~~~~
James took note of the hospital's name as the paramedics loaded the only family he had left into the ambulance. It hit him then that he'd never really had a family. He'd only had his mom and Jordan, and Emily was dead. They'd both protected him. They'd both saved his life. Emily had died for him.
Was Jordan going to die, too? She didn't look good. I gotta go see her, somehow, he decided. They'll never let me in to see her.
Never mind. Stealth was his middle name by now.
After a suitable time had passed, he hailed a cab. He might have waited longer, but a storm system had blown in, and the sky had begun to hail on him. He paid the driver with some of the money he had "borrowed" from his sister.
He slunk into the back entrance of the hospital. James himself wasn't sure how he did it. Fate was with him, it seemed, when he stole a set of scrubs and a generic pass from an empty locker room. And from there it was a cakewalk, finding the correct floor, playing charades. Thank you, lax security, he thought as he swiped a clean doctor's jacket from an abandoned lounge.
~~~~~
"Why did you go to your daughter's apartment?" demanded the district attorney, who had a talent for getting straight to the point.
"She was in trouble. Haven't you ever had kids?"
"This isn't about me. WHY did you go to her apartment?"
"I just told you."
"Look, Cavanaugh. Why did you suspect she was in trouble?" This was going to be a long, frustrating session, she realized. Nothing worse then questioning a headstrong ex-cop. She sipped her coffee.
"Why should I tell you anything?"
"In case it hasn't escaped your attention, you're the main suspect in a cop- killing."
"I didn't kill him."
"And yet when Detective Hoyt got to you, he'd heard two shots fired, and Malden was dead."
"I didn't kill him. I didn't shoot him, I swear."
"Right, and I'm Martha Stewart." Renee ran her fingers through her hair. She was getting a headache. "Look, I'm going to go make some calls. When I get back, maybe you'll be ready to talk. Or do you want me to fix you up a room?" she asked ominously.
Max sat back in the chair and shut his mouth. He would wait it out.
~~~~~
James passed a nurse as he walked down the corridor. She didn't give him a second look. He discretely peeked into the rooms as he walked past, and soon he came to Jordan's. He thanked whoever was up there that it was a single. No roommate. Good.
He grabbed the chart from the door, and knocked moments before he entered, pretending to study the records.
"That was fast," Jordan commented, as she looked at Woody. Too fast, actually, but she did not say that out loud. "So, doctor. What's keeping me here?"
James smiled, and lifted his head. He had meant to thank her, greet her warmly, even, but the side of him still drenched in the darkness of suspicion and hate emerged strong as ever.
"Why'd you tip him off, Jordan?"
"Tip who off? What."
"You know who."
"Oh no."
Woody looked back and forth, feeling lost. "Jordan, who."
"Not now, Woody." The old bravado had returned, a thin mask for fear, yet oh so convincing.
"You told him where I was, Jordan. I thought I was safe with you."
"James, he drugged me. I couldn't help it. I don't know what I said."
"Thanks for the loan, by the way." He smiled wanly. "I left it in your apartment. They'll probably find it, but don't worry. I wiped it down."
And all that could be heard was the rain attempting to break through the window.
And he was gone as quickly and neatly as he had come.
Note: First, I must apologize for my allusions to The Pretender, however small. I couldn't resist.
In other news, all characters belong to Tom Kring, NBC, and everybody in between. But you knew that. On with the show!
~~~~~
"Well," said the nurse. "Your heart rate is still a little slow, and."
"Don't feed me that. I'm fine. I feel fine."
"We're just keeping you under observation, Dr. Cavanaugh. Brevital and alcohol don't combine well."
"Are you saying you think I did this to myself?" Jordan sat up a bit.
"Well, I wasn't, but now that you mention it," the nurse flipped through the charts, "you were in here previously for another similar."
"Let me talk to a doctor," Jordan cut icily in.
"You are a doctor," pointed out the unfazed nurse, who made a few notes, and put the clipboard back into its slot on the door.
"But you aren't. Let me talk to a doctor," she insisted. The nurse nodded, and left the room. She had other patients to attend to, after all.
~~~~~
James took note of the hospital's name as the paramedics loaded the only family he had left into the ambulance. It hit him then that he'd never really had a family. He'd only had his mom and Jordan, and Emily was dead. They'd both protected him. They'd both saved his life. Emily had died for him.
Was Jordan going to die, too? She didn't look good. I gotta go see her, somehow, he decided. They'll never let me in to see her.
Never mind. Stealth was his middle name by now.
After a suitable time had passed, he hailed a cab. He might have waited longer, but a storm system had blown in, and the sky had begun to hail on him. He paid the driver with some of the money he had "borrowed" from his sister.
He slunk into the back entrance of the hospital. James himself wasn't sure how he did it. Fate was with him, it seemed, when he stole a set of scrubs and a generic pass from an empty locker room. And from there it was a cakewalk, finding the correct floor, playing charades. Thank you, lax security, he thought as he swiped a clean doctor's jacket from an abandoned lounge.
~~~~~
"Why did you go to your daughter's apartment?" demanded the district attorney, who had a talent for getting straight to the point.
"She was in trouble. Haven't you ever had kids?"
"This isn't about me. WHY did you go to her apartment?"
"I just told you."
"Look, Cavanaugh. Why did you suspect she was in trouble?" This was going to be a long, frustrating session, she realized. Nothing worse then questioning a headstrong ex-cop. She sipped her coffee.
"Why should I tell you anything?"
"In case it hasn't escaped your attention, you're the main suspect in a cop- killing."
"I didn't kill him."
"And yet when Detective Hoyt got to you, he'd heard two shots fired, and Malden was dead."
"I didn't kill him. I didn't shoot him, I swear."
"Right, and I'm Martha Stewart." Renee ran her fingers through her hair. She was getting a headache. "Look, I'm going to go make some calls. When I get back, maybe you'll be ready to talk. Or do you want me to fix you up a room?" she asked ominously.
Max sat back in the chair and shut his mouth. He would wait it out.
~~~~~
James passed a nurse as he walked down the corridor. She didn't give him a second look. He discretely peeked into the rooms as he walked past, and soon he came to Jordan's. He thanked whoever was up there that it was a single. No roommate. Good.
He grabbed the chart from the door, and knocked moments before he entered, pretending to study the records.
"That was fast," Jordan commented, as she looked at Woody. Too fast, actually, but she did not say that out loud. "So, doctor. What's keeping me here?"
James smiled, and lifted his head. He had meant to thank her, greet her warmly, even, but the side of him still drenched in the darkness of suspicion and hate emerged strong as ever.
"Why'd you tip him off, Jordan?"
"Tip who off? What."
"You know who."
"Oh no."
Woody looked back and forth, feeling lost. "Jordan, who."
"Not now, Woody." The old bravado had returned, a thin mask for fear, yet oh so convincing.
"You told him where I was, Jordan. I thought I was safe with you."
"James, he drugged me. I couldn't help it. I don't know what I said."
"Thanks for the loan, by the way." He smiled wanly. "I left it in your apartment. They'll probably find it, but don't worry. I wiped it down."
And all that could be heard was the rain attempting to break through the window.
And he was gone as quickly and neatly as he had come.