She stood shivering in the late winter air, bathed in the purplish glow of the red and blue sirens. An officer had draped a Boston PD windbreaker around her shoulders, and she gave numb "yes" and "no" answers to his unending series of questions.
She watched Woody standing across the street leaning against a police car, nodding his head grimly as one of the senior detectives spoke to him.
The older man left Woody with a sympathetic clap on the shoulder, and Jordan crossed to him. She placed an uneasy hand on his back.
"I'm so sorry, Woody..." It seemed inadequate. She had repeated it over and over again as they waited there in the dank room for help. He had made a frantic 911 call, but they had both known it was too late as Cal lay motionless, open-eyed, in a widening pool of blood.
He had paced at first, saying nothing. Then, as the grim realization settled in, he had collapsed onto the floor, elbows on knees, head buried in hands until the first, faint keening of sirens could be heard in the distance. Then, he had snapped up onto his feet with steely reserve, ever the professional.
Now, Cal was gone, taken unceremoniously out on a gurney covered in a white sheet. He was followed into a waiting van by the body of the Albanian that Woody had shot dead inside the abandoned nightclub.
She had tried desperately to comfort him with words or the touch of her hand, but just has he was doing now, he would gently loosen the grip on his arm and insist that he was all right.
"I'll need to call Uncle Bob," he started slowly. His voice was thick and rough. "He can call the cousins. I've lost track of most of them..."
She tried again, slipping her hand through the crook of his arm. "Woody, you don't have to do this right now."
He continued, unhearing. "I'll have to make arrangements to fly the body home."
Jordan shuddered a little at his choice of words. Not Cal or my brother. The body.
"Why don't you let me do that, Woody?" she offered gently.
"I'm fine, Jordan." He nodded as if to convince himself. An awkward beat passed.
"It wasn't your fault, Woody." He turned to her then, and the look on his face took her breath: a mixture of pain, guilt and disbelief.
The older detective approached again with a weary sigh. "His name was Natos Farna. He'd been in the country for nine months and was already a suspect in a couple of mob executions." Woody's eyes fell to the ground, and the detective gave him another pat on the shoulder. "It was a good kill, Det. Hoyt. I don't think there will be any investigation."
He was gone then, and the cars began to disperse into the night. Woody remained there motionless, his face a frozen mask.
She knew he needed her, but she barely felt equipped to deal with what had happened, herself. She had almost died. She had watched in the horrific instant as Cal had slipped lifelessly onto the floor and looked up at her with vacant eyes. And then she had waited breathlessly after the second gunshot to see who would emerge from the darkness.
How could Woody possibly carry the unbearable burden of what had passed that night? She could only imagine the weight of his guilt and grief, but he stood there, stolid and stoic.
"Woody?" He looked up at her and blinked hard.
"Huh?"
"Let me take you home, okay?"
"No, I'm fine. I just think I should..."
"I'm not going to take no for an answer, Woody."
He nodded once and let her lead him to her car.
XXXXX
They did not speak on the way home.
His apartment seemed unusually empty, somehow, yet filled with poignant reminders. She noticed the stiff old Sears family portrait on the desk of the young Hoyt family, before Woody's mother got sick, before Sheriff Hoyt was gunned down, before Cal's life spiraled out of control.
There was a forgotten dingy t-shirt of Cal's draped over a kitchen chair. She watched as Woody picked it up gingerly and held it in his hand for a long moment. Then, he folded it neatly and placed it on the chair as if the owner would return for it and find it there.
She ached for him, ached to be able to help him through this fog. He moved haltingly through the apartment and finally sat on the edge of the bed. She followed and hovered uneasily in the doorway, unsure of what to say.
Finally, he spoke. "I could have done more."
"No, Woody."
"Why didn't I give him the money? I should have just given him the money."
"Woody..."
His voice rose. "Why did I draw my gun? Maybe if I had just..."
She moved inside the room and sat beside him on the bed. "You had no way of knowing. And you tried. You did try." Her voice broke, and she felt the sting of tears for Cal, for Woody.
She stood and wiped them away quickly before he could see. "Well, I'm sure everyone at the P.D. has heard by now. I can call Garrett and the others, if you'd like. They'll want to know."
She had turned to leave the room when he caught her hand. "No. Please stay." His own eyes were moist with tears. He pulled her gently to him, and she sat back down on the bed. "Don't go."
She wrapped her arms around him; it was all she could do. He shuddered once, and breathed in deeply to stop the tears. He reached out and pulled her closer, clinging to her as if sheltering from a storm.
"I'm not going anywhere," she whispered. "I'm right here."
They sat like that for a long moment before he fell back onto the bed and rolled onto his side. She curled next to him, stroking his hair with gentle words, before his body finally gave up and let him drift into an uneasy sleep.
