11.
Every police officer, in the course of time, eventually learns the odious task of writing up reports and statements in the legalistic terms necessary for official files. Horatio was no different, if anything he was so proficient at the task due to his investigative and scientific background that he would often dream in legalese. For the remainder of his evening, still being a bit early in Seattle but three hours later on the East coast, he sat there in the warm cabin of the 'Amalia Blue' and typed out for himself and for Schell their official statements of what had occurred regarding the rental boat, and what she knew in regards to Paul Hirsch. He fully intended for her to read them over, make any necessary changes and have them ready for later. Once he had checked out of the hotel, he knew he had pretty much cut himself off from contact with his co-workers in Miami, as the yacht carried no landline. Only if his connection was damned good would the cell phone work. He did place two local calls, that to the Captain of Beckman's squad with a request for a call back and a meeting, and the other to Rick Turner to tell him what was going on.
That had pretty much left him alone to write up the reports, to relax and think. A luxury for him. The 'Amalia Blue' had the advantage of providing that uniquely peaceful quality Horatio's soul often yearned for. All that could be heard were the small sounds of the appliances, the muted lapping of water against the hull, the soft rain showering down and the occasional slap and jingle of the rigging. Further out was the sound of shipping and the sporadic blast from a passing ferry. He found himself curious as to why Schell Demereau, as young as she was, would live in this sort of environment, not that that was a bad thing.
The 'Amalia Blue' also provided one other thing that was very rare for Horatio Caine. She lulled him into a very deep sleep. For the first time in a long time he slipped straight down into a comforting blackness and did not dream. It was therefore somewhat confusing for him, who was so used to snapping awake in the dead of night for a 'Call 31', to actually have to struggle awake when a wholly different sound nudged him gently into something resembling consciousness.
Groggily he turned over onto his back and blinked in confusion at the unfamiliar surroundings. He ran a hand down his face, pushed the blankets down his bare chest with the other hand and blinked, trying to focus in the soft grey gloom of dawn. He had finally put a name to the noise, the coffeemaker was brewing a pot. Frowning, he sat up and looked out into the salon, running a hand through his rumpled red hair. He had slept so that he could look out into the salon and keep an eye on the main cabin door. And as he collected himself he realized he had been sleeping damn hard. Other than himself, there was no other movement on the boat, save the gentle rocking. He could hear that it was raining out as he swung his pajama-clad legs to the floor and he listened carefully for the sounds of the other occupant of the boat.
More fully awake, he began to sense that he was the only person onboard. Rising, he flipped the blankets back into place then reached into the port side locker for his robe, as it was downright chilly. Cinching it around his waist he padded through the dining nook and towards the master bedroom door. It was too damn quiet. And he knew, even as he lightly rapped a knuckle on the door, that Schell Demereau was not on board the boat.
"Schell?" he asked, and poked his head into the room. The bed was neatly made and empty. Horatio turned towards the galley, the smell of the coffee caressing his nose, and frowned when he saw a note in front of the coffeepot, held in place by a cup. As annoyance tiptoed around the alarm he was feeling, he moved into the galley and picked up the note.
'Morning,' -- it read-- 'Don't be worried, the only people up at this hour are the commercial fishermen and one particular starving artist on a deadline, so I am in the studio. Feel free to use the shower in the master bedroom if you'd like. Hope you slept well, you were when I left. ;) P.S. I have the keys.'
Horatio sighed, running his hand over his mouth, the other planted on his hip as he leaned into the counter and struggled between relief and dismay. A glance at the clock on the microwave told him it was a quarter to six. How long had she been out of the boat? Pursing his lips in disgust at having slept too hard, he pushed off from the counter and headed back to the forward bunk, where he gathered his shaving kit. Half an hour later, dressed in a black suit with a white shirt and shivering in a thick black overcoat against the chilly grey morning, he strode across the parking lot towards the mini-mart/bait shop.
The city was barely starting to wake up and he glanced cautiously towards the huge park that sat east of the marina, still shrouded in wisps of fog and darkness, broken up only occasionally by the passing cars of early commuters and the halogen street lights that were on. A soft shower fell, which he ignored as he approached the stairs to the studio. A glance at the windows caused him to frown in dismay even more; he couldn't tell if any lights were on as the blinds were still drawn. When he reached the landing and faced the door, he paused again, habitually scanning around, and was about to knock when he stopped and very gingerly tested the knob to see it was locked. That was when his nose caught the smell of coffee, confirming that she was inside. He pursed his lips a moment, then he reached inside his suit jacket and pulled out a slim pen case. Opening it revealed a pen in a stiff felt case liner. With his fingernail, he tugged the liner up and pulled it towards him to further reveal two lock picks. Pulling one out, he rearranged things, put the case away, and then very neatly, and just as silently, he unlocked the studio door.
The only lights on inside were the Ott lights. As he cautiously, and silently entered, the smell of varnish reached his nose and he glanced left to see the enormous painting set on two easels revealed. One of the Ott lights was set near it along with a fan. The painting, lying sideways, was of a four-mast sailing ship struck on rocks in a breaking sea, with its sails and rigging being blown to bits in the storm that had driven it there. Despite the stunningly large work, Horatio wasn't interested; he instead looked towards the back of the room.
Schell was ensconced under the other Ott light, sitting on a stool before the unfinished painting in the northwest corner of the room. She had slipped on a pair of soft leather boots, jeans and a sweater with the sleeves rolled up and had her white hair pulled back in a thick ponytail, her bangs falling in front of her face. Intensely focusing on the acrylic painting before her, she had in her left hand a painter's palette, upon which she was mixing colours together with a thin palette knife before she dropped it into a small can of water on the shelf of the easel before her. Reaching for a slim brush, she leaned forward, set her right arm on the dowel armrest, twisted her back towards Horatio and began earnestly applying critical detail to the painting. Her concentration on the work was such that he could almost feel it. She was utterly oblivious to him.
She was so oblivious that she never heard him shut the door, go to the coffeepot, pour himself a cup and move over to the couch. He leaned a hip against the back of it, holding the coffee cup in one hand, his other on his hip, his thumb hooked in his belt and the index finger resting on the top edge. He waited for a pause in her work; when she sat back to examine what she had done, he cleared his throat, loudly.
With an indrawn gasp of horror, Schell shot backwards off the stool so fast it rocked violently then fell with a clatter as she stumbled. Trying to juggle the palette in her hand she looked toward the source of the sound, pale with fright. Seeing him standing there, observing her over the rim of his coffee cup, she reached a shaky hand to pull her hair back off her face, and struggled to catch her breath.
"Horatio!" she sighed in relief, her heart pounding where it had lodged in her throat. "You scared the hell out of me!" She let out a nervous laugh as she sounded relieved and chagrined at the same time.
Lowering his cup, he bit his bottom lip gently then softly said, "Good."
Hearing his voice, Schell frowned, straightening up, holding her free hand to her chest as she gained control of the adrenalin coursing through her.
"If I was trying to kill you…" he went on, "I could have taken you out six ways to Sunday by now."
"How did you…?" she started to say, a flash of resentment in her eyes before she saw him look away, lick his lower lip again before turning back to her with an expression that brooked no arguing.
"If I am to keep you safe we are going to have to establish a few ground rules," he continued, "Otherwise, my spending the time to keep you from harm is going to be pointless if you just up and leave my protection on a whim." He paused again, sipping coffee, watching her over the cup.
Any arguing with him was stopped dead at the tone in his voice. Schell couldn't keep his gaze, and looked away, resembling a puppy with its tail tucked between its legs. She lowered the palette in her hand.
"It was not very hard for me to pick that lock," he continued, "And enter this room without you even noticing me. That is something that has to change until this situation regarding whoever it is who wants you dead is resolved. What if it was him instead of me entering this room? What would you have been able to do? Hmmm?" His eyebrow rose in query.
"You've made your point, Lieutenant," she said with a touch of sharpness. Still not able to bear his gaze.
"Have I?" he went on relentlessly. "This isn't a game we're playing here, Schell, this is your life."
She started to lift her head in defiance, saw the look in his eyes and conceded defeat. She turned away from him, setting the palette down on the table, and picking up a piece of Saran wrap to cover the paint and keep it moist. She sighed, sheepishly glancing his way again.
He hadn't moved, though the look on his face had changed to one more of compassion. "Schell," he said gently, "I am aware that this situation is utterly foreign to you, but this is something I am terribly familiar with."
He selected his words carefully. "I am more than aware of what a killer is capable of doing, especially one who is still seeking his victim. I am also more than capable of keeping someone like you alive, and safe and protected."
He had put his cup down, and was carefully emphasizing his points with his hands flat together, his fingers pointing towards her, almost as if he was praying. "And part of that protection means you are going to have to give up familiar habits, because your attacker most assuredly knows your habits by now. My being with you has thrown him off, but that will not stop him from trying again, if you don't change. I am willing to help you, so long as you do exactly what I suggest. Are you still with me?"
She glanced at him again, still chagrinned, and nodded assent, looking back down at her fallen stool. Horatio could see she was clenching her teeth in an effort not to say anything and he sighed, looking away from her as he dropped his hands, feeling a twinge of regret at having to drive his point home. Silently she reached down and picked up her stool, setting it near the easel.
The silence stretched out a moment longer before she looked shyly at him, where he leaned back with his hands on the couch, and was looking at the sideways painting on its easels. "So what happens now?" she asked.
He sighed, looking at her, his eyes barely concealing a deep-seated sorrow. He was painfully aware of the wall of defense she had just built.
"It's early yet, but I've some things for you to look over on the boat. We should try and give Beckman what he wants today, just to keep him happy." He waited as she reached over to the water can on her easel, removing her tools and tapping the extra water off.
"All right." she replied, reaching for a rag on the table and turning away from him. The flatness in her voice seemed to skewer him and he looked at her with a sense of loss in his eyes. He wanted to say something and found he couldn't. He blinked a few a times, looking around the room, as she cleaned up her brushes. He dropped his head, and stood up straight, reaching for where he had draped his overcoat across the back of the couch.
Saying nothing, Schell took the can from the easel and walked around him, heading for the sink as she tugged her sleeves back down. Once there she set the can in the sink, shut the coffeemaker off, then paused at the door, waiting for him as he straightened the collar of his coat.
"Cold out there," he commented, feeling an odd itch between his shoulder blades. She didn't reply, she just reached over for the door knob.
"Schell," he said softly, causing her to stop. Looking up with that faint flash of fire in her eyes, she sighed, raised her hands and stood back, letting him open the door. Never realizing how her action twisted a knife in his guts. He reached out and opened the door.
Habitually scanning for any signs of danger, Horatio was looking straight out over Shilshole Avenue, now busier with cars, towards the dark green canopy of trees from the park. A momentary flash of red in his eyes caused him to frown for a split second before realization hit him.
"Down!" he shouted, crouching and turning towards Schell behind him. He heard the first bullet literally inches from his ear as he instinctively grabbed for a gun that wasn't on his hip, the second and third he 'felt' as they whipped past the open door of the studio. Schell had no clue what was happening as he literally tackled her to floor.
"Stay down!" he yelled in frustration, twisting around like a cat, and catching the door with his foot, slamming it shut. Almost as fast, several holes appeared in it, causing him to roll back and cover her with his body for protection. He was fumbling desperately in his jacket for his cell phone. At a pause in the shooting, he scrambled up, dragging Schell with him to the safety of the moving boxes as he pulled her away from the door. Urgently he asked, "Are you all right?" and at her nod he said, sternly, "You stay right here!"
Rising up the stack of boxes, his back to them, he inched towards the door, his hands automatically flipping open his cell phone and hitting the buttons for 911. He sidled around her bookcase, reaching the door as a voice on the other end of the line answered the call. Horatio's commanding tone took over as he reached over with his left hand, feeling a twinge as he twisted, and grabbed the door knob.
"This is Horatio Caine, we have shots being fired at the studio above the mini-mart at Shilshole Bay Marina, I repeat, we have shots being fired!" Even as he jerked the door open, those shots continued being fired, striking the door jamb and causing him to whip his head back. Dropping to a crouch, the phone still to his ear, he risked a quick fast look outside, before jerking back. "Shots are being fired from across the street in the park. You have two civilians pinned down inside the studio!" Horatio nearly swore at the voice on the other end of the line, "Yes, I'm an off duty police officer! I am unarmed, repeat, I am unarmed!"