Chapter 2

Jim was sitting at his desk, his hand at his mouth, working out what he'd ask on this interview. It had to be good. He'd hate to have to cut the two families free if they actually knew something, but he wasn't about to keep them on if they were lying.

"Here's the address," Lt. Fisk said.

Jim listened to him tear a piece of paper out of a notebook.

"Jim?"

Jim looked up.

"The address."

Jim held up his hand and the lieutenant laid the paper there. He could feel his face getting red, something he could usually keep from happening. Karen took care of stuff like that. "Where's Karen?"

"I don't know," Fisk said, already walking away.

Jim hadn't noticed if Karen was there or not. He was slipping, needed to pay more attention.

He needed to find Karen so they could get going. Something about the case didn't sit right with him and he just wanted to get it over with.

He heard rustling from Marty's desk. "Hey, Marty, you seen Karen?"

It was still early, but Karen was usually there by then.

"Yep. She took one look at you and walked back out the door."

Jim nodded somberly. "Thanks for telling me." He stood up and headed for the locker room.

"Karen?"

"Nope," Tom said, "just me."

Jim turned to where the coffee pots were kept. "You seen her?" he asked.

Tom said, "Mhm," with what sounded like a mouthful of hot coffee. "Ooh, hot, but good." He blew out a breath. "Speaking of hot… I saw Karen last night with this friend of hers, and this friend, she's a piece, Jim. Honest, gorgeous, legs like—"

"Tom!" Jim laughed and held up a hand. "I thought you had a girlfriend."

"I do."

"Then what are you doing, talking like that?" Jim felt uncomfortable. He'd been down that road before. He didn't want to end up the wet blanket, father-figure type at the squad, but…

"A guy's gotta look."

"No." Jim shook his head. Pictures of Anne flashed through his mind. She'd been a work of art herself, not as gorgeous as Christie, but definitely more approachable, softer, smiled more— "No, Tom, don't even look. Trust me."

Tom laughed. "Yeah, that's what my girlfriend said before she stole my car keys and went and sat in the car pouting."

"Learn that lesson."

"It's blackmail. Girls do that to get flowers and stuff. I told her it was just Karen, and Karen's friend, what's her name, Anne something—"

Jim's ears started ringing so loudly he couldn't hear Tom anymore. Anne. That's right, Karen had told him they were friends. He'd been nervous at first that Karen would never be able to get over what he'd done, but she'd seemed to put it in his past and he'd nearly forgotten. Anne. Yeah, he'd thought the same things about her as Tom had just said.

He wondered if he'd ever seen Karen when he was out with Anne. They'd kept their relationship discreet—or, at least, he had—but a couple times they'd run into people she'd known. He might have actually met Karen before, but if she hadn't said anything then so he could recognize her voice now… It was a strange thought. He could meet people now that he'd been seeing for years and not recognize them.

Fleetingly, always the glutton for punishment, he thought of asking Karen if they'd ever met before. Women never forget meeting a guy who's wronged them or a wronged a friend. She'd be able to tell him when and where and what she was wearing and maybe he'd be able to remember what she looked like.

"She's into all this artsy stuff, and I don't do that scene," Tom was saying about his girlfriend, maybe justifying why he should be looking around to keep his options open.

Jim nodded. "Christie's like that, too."

"Does she have all these weird friends who come over looking like they just splatter-painted Times Squares?"

"No. They're more high class photographers and fashion models. Broadway."

"Ooh, tough. You gotta hang out with them?"

Jim smiled a little. "One thing these people don't do, Tom, is "hang out.""

Tom laughed. "Wine tastings. My girl's into wine tastings. I need a beer just thinking about it."

"Yeah, Christie did those for a while, too."

"Does it get any better?" Tom asked confidentially.

Jim blinked. "I don't know."

Karen called his cell a few minutes later to let him know she was almost there and he told her he'd meet her outside so they could get going. He didn't even ask why she'd been late, afraid he'd hear that she was hung over because she'd gone out last night, and then she'd have to bring up Anne and he'd find Anne still wasn't over it yet. He'd known Anne well enough during their short relationship to know she was the type to hold a grudge until the grave.

Jim waited right outside the front door until he heard Karen honk. "Right here," she called out her open window. Jim nudged Hank into the back of the car and climbed in. "Good morning!" she said.

"You're sure chipper," he commented.

"I overslept. A good night's sleep is amazing, you know? Your whole outlook on life gets all rosy—" She yawned, then pulled into traffic. "Where are we going?"

Jim pulled the paper out of his inside jacket pocket and handed it to her.

"Is that an 1875 or an 1825?" she asked.

"I don't know." He'd thought of having someone read him the address before leaving, but sometimes he took it for granted that, with Karen, he could get out of asking anyone else for help. If only his software could read handwritten notes he'd be in heaven.

"Seven. I think it's a seven." Karen mumbled when they got caught up in traffic.

"Sorry. I should have asked."

"Eh," she said noncommittally. It sounded like she shrugged, her coat brushing the seatbelt. "The boss has bad handwriting. Now you know."

Jim nodded. "Now I know." They drove in silence for a few minutes. Jim turned toward the window, running his fingers lightly over the cold glass. "What else don't I know?" he asked quietly.

Karen was quiet for a second. He could feel the car pulling into a parking spot. "We're here," she said and turned the car off.

"That I knew," Jim said, getting out. He let Hank out and the two followed Karen to the front door of an old tenement building.

"Looks like apartment 8A." Jim let the door slam shut behind him. Karen groaned. "That's gotta be on the eighth floor. No elevator. Come on."

Karen was huffing when she finally got up the stairs. Jim and Hank had taken the stairs two at a time and reached the top floor first.

"You must be in pretty good shape," Karen puffed.

Jim shrugged. "My legs are longer than yours."

"Right, you don't have to try to make me feel better." Karen took a deep breath, then knocked on a door.

Jim situated himself behind his panting partner. The door opened and they were ushered in. Hank's tail was wagging. Some he recognized was there.

"You're back," DeLana said.

Jim could hear arguing from another room, but it was muffled. Door must have been closed. "Yep. Can't keep us away…"

"Pretty crappy accommodations you got us."

Jim opened his mouth, but couldn't think of anything appropriate to say. Crappy? When it was heated, they had free food, weren't living on the street—

"Just joking, detective. You need to chill sometimes, you know?"

Jim tried to smile. "I guess I'm not very good at chilling."

The arguing had gotten louder and then the door flew open and words flooded the room. Jim's head snapped up in that direction.

"You gotta get us out of here!" Rico Artez was yelling.

"Mr. Artez, you need to lie down—"

"I can't just—my family is in trouble and you don't care!"

"No one knows where you are, you're in no danger," the second voice said reasonably.

"They know where we are. Police custody don't help. We been here too long, man."

Jim heard footsteps coming rapidly down a hallway then into the room.

"See? I'm an expert on telling people when they need to relax," DeLana said quietly as her brother burst into the room.

"See, they know we're here. There's people all over here and you say no one knows we're here."

"We're the ones who put you here," Karen said.

"We can't talk here," Rico said, then disappeared into another part of the apartment.

"Doesn't sound like we're gonna learn much today," Karen said quietly to Jim.

"DeLana, could I talk to you for a minute?" Jim asked. He gestured for Hank to move to the right, the opposite direction than Rico had gone. Hank stopped a few feet over and Jim turned.

"What?" DeLana said when he didn't say anything right away.

Jim turned to her, forcing himself to stop listening as Artez yelled at an officer in another room. "You know, we can help you. I don't know what's going on, but—"

"Yeah," DeLana said, "you and what army?"

Jim faced her somberly and leaned forward a little. "If it's bad enough, we can get the army involved."

She laughed loudly. "You're sweet, detective, but like I told you, we don't know anything that can help you."

"If you know anything at all, that's more than we got."

"Nothing. Sorry." She started to move away, but Jim held out a hand.

"I know this is going to sound bad—" He froze as Rico yelled a string of expletives and said he was leaving if they didn't move his family. Jim closed his eyes a second to compose his thoughts. "Your brother, he's not paranoid or anything, is he? 'Cause we need to know."

"No," DeLana said, her voice a little icy, "he's not crazy. Why do people always think that because he's epileptic—"

Jim waved her off. "I'm not saying anything because he's epileptic. I'm saying because he's yelling at an officer to get him out of police custody and claims he may know something, which you say you don't. So, I want to know if one of you's been lying, or if one's just a little paranoid."

He heard her walk away and a second later Karen was at his side whispering, "That didn't go over so well, huh?"

"Let me talk to Artez."

"Let's just go. They're not going to tell us anything."

"I need to know for sure if he actually knows anything. Yesterday… He was a little out of it yesterday. You know, passing out like he did."

"Right, right. But if you ask me, they don't know anything."

"I'm keeping that in mind."

"Rico's in the kitchen. Go straight past the front door, doorway's to the right. He's sitting at the kitchen table, his head in his hands. Sister's with him," Karen quietly illustrated.

"Thanks."

"I'll stay here and talk to the girlfriend—she just came in from the bedroom."

Jim walked over to the kitchen. He listened briefly as Karen started talking to the girlfriend before turning his attention elsewhere. "Rico, I— DeLana, could we have a minute?" He heard footsteps leave the room. "Rico, I need to know what's going on. You tell us, we'll move you. You don't, I don't believe anything's going on, we let you go. We can't just move you around."

"Detective…"

Jim realized the man was crying and his mouth nearly dropped. Artez was a big man, prone to anger and yelling. Crying seemed against his nature.

"They'll kill the girls. We've been here too long. You let us go, they'll think we talked and I wasn't gonna, yesterday. I just thought it would get us out of there, get them some food. I wasn't thinking straight. Scrambled brains, that's what it feels like after an episode."

"Who's threatening to kill who, and does this have anything to do with the dead guy we found on the stairs yesterday?"

"No." He took a breath and sniffled. "I can't tell you anything. Sorry."

"You know, we deal with death threats all the time. That's what the police are for. If it makes you feel any better, that's usually all they are, threats."

"Yeah, detective, great, thanks, so much better." Rico pushed back the chair and it grated against the linoleum. "We're dealing with someone who's ever "just threatened." He's probably already poisoned the drinking water here."

"Do you realize how difficult it is to poison the water that comes through the pipes from the city plant? Especially just the water to one apartment?"

"Doesn't matter. Then he'd do something else."

"Does this have anything to do with the man we found yesterday?"

"You tell me, detective. You ever known someone's life to be threatened, and you find a dead body at the same place, and it's just a coincidence?"

"At this point, if you don't give us some more information, we can't help you. Then I'll have to label it a coincidence, yeah."

"Yeah, I thought so."

"I can only have faith if you give us some back."

"And all I've been getting is sht, so that's what I'm giving back."

Jim turned around and walked back out the door.

"Anything?" Karen asked.

"Nothing." He paused. "Hey, let's go talk to the kids."

"'Kay."

"Two kids, right? 'Cause the other two are too young."

"Yeah, you want them both?"

"Let's see if we can talk to them at the same time. They might feel more comfortable. Where's DeLana?"

"I'm standing right behind you, detective. You think I'd let you out of my sight?"

Jim didn't turn. "Where's your kids?"

"They don't know nothin'."

"We'll see about that."

"You probably shouldn't use that phrase, detective," DeLana said snottily.

"I'll keep that in mind, thanks. Where's your kids?"

"Bedroom. You want me to show you?"

"I want you to stay here. Karen?"

Hank and Jim followed Karen to the hallway where the one bedroom was located next to the bathroom.

"They got a playpen for the babies." Karen led Jim to the one bed so he could sit down and be on the same level with the kids.

"Hi," Jim said awkwardly. Kids were often quiet around cops, which didn't help him much. The silence was so thick he was sure they were holding their breath, even the babies.

Something landed near his foot and an evil baby laugh burst out from the playpen near the window.

"Don't do that," one of the girls reprimanded. The eldest, the nine-year-old whose name he couldn't recall. She swooped down and picked up the errant toy.

"What's your name?" Jim asked while he listened to her bustle around the room.

"Tamika. I'm nine. I take care of the kids while Mom's busy."

Jim nodded. "I'm Jim."

"Momma told us never to call grown-ups by their first names. Makes ya'll think you're too close to us kids, like we're friends or something, and bad things happen then."

"Oh."

"I remember you from yesterday."

"Yeah, about—"

"But you wouldn't remember me, 'cause'n I didn't say nothin' the whole time." She sounded a little smug, but clever like her mother.

"About yesterday," Jim said patiently.

She turned away with a hmmph. "I don't know nothin' about yesterday."

Karen sighed. She'd moved toward the window.

Jim heard something land by his feet again.

"Up! Pick up!" a little voice cried.

Jim leaned forward and ran his hand along the floor, ending up clutching a stuffed animal that rattled when he lifted it.

"Gimme! Gimme!"

"I got it," Tamika said bossily.

Jim frowned. He didn't want a nine-year-old feeling superior, thinking he couldn't even pick up a few toys. "I got it." He stood up and slowly crossed to the playpen. Karen didn't give any clues as to if the way was clear, so he proceeded cautiously. "What's the baby's name?"

"My baby sister's name's Cindy."

Jim smiled, remembering. "Right, Cindy."

"Don't laugh! She can't help her name."

"Who named her?" Jim asked nonchalantly, putting his hand into open space, holding the toy above the playpen. It was snatched with a squeal.

"Uncle Josiah."

"It's a good name, Cindy." Something pushed against Jim's legs.

"DeWanda, stop! Go play!"

"Why'd your uncle name her that?"

Jim listened as she ran around the room, chasing a squealing child who must have been the four-year-old, DeWanda. "He's not my uncle," she said as she jumped up on the bed. "That's just what we call him. Us'ly with grown-ups, we gotta call 'em Mr. Dunbar, but he's just Uncle Josiah."

Jim nodded, turning as the two children brushed in front of him, then ran back toward the door. Something warm and wet and sticky latched on to one of his fingers as his hand passed over the playpen. He squatted down next to the two imprisoned youngsters. "Is Uncle Josiah gonna help your mom?"

"I dunno." It sounded like Tamika had just wrestled her younger sister to the bed and was sitting on her, contemplating the question while the younger one squealed and whined, the sounds muffled.

Jim blinked and pulled his hand back as his sunglasses were swiped from his face. Another sticky hand had left a smear of something on his temple. He reached up, rubbed his fingers over it, sniffed. "You like grape jelly?" he asked the baby with the evil laugh.

"Yup," the two-year-old said.

Karen was laughing.

"Is Uncle Josiah nice to you?" Jim asked, trying to stay on track and not get distracted.

"I dunno." Tamika jumped off the bed and busied herself.

"You don't?"

"I don't remember him. I don't get to see him anymore. But Cindy does still. I gotta stay back and watch DeWanda us'ly." It sounded like she started picking up around the playpen, bending, straightening up, dropping objects into the pen. "And Clem gets to go, too."

"Who's Clem?"

"Short for Clement. We wanted to name him Sharise, but he was a boy. That's why Uncle Rico can't marry Candy."

"Why?"

"'Cause Clem's a boy."

"So? What's that got to do with anything?"

"I don't know. DeWanda! Sit still."

Jim felt something brush past him and he sat on the floor so he wouldn't be knocked over.

"Here," a little voice said nearby.

"She's got your sunglasses for you," Tamika explained.

"Oh." Jim held his hand out. "Thanks." They were sticky, so he put them in the inner pocket of his jacket, next to his cane. "You must be DeWanda?"

"Yeah," the four-year-old said shyly.

"She can't talk to you," Tamika said. Jim heard the older sister pull the younger one away.

"Why not?"

"'Cause."

Jim sighed. "You're a lot like your mom, you know that?"

"Yep."

"What's your dad like?"

"I dunno."

"You've never met him?"

"Nope. I don't think so… Maybe I did. Maybe Momma just didn't tell me who he was and I see him all the time and he's real proud of me. Or maybe he died. Took too many drugs, or died in a car crash and there was lots of fire and it exploded and—"

"Okay, okay, I get the point. Your mom never told you anything about him?"

"Nope."

"Is he DeWanda's dad, too?"

"I dunno."

"What about Cindy? You woulda been about six. Do you remember who your mom was seeing then?"

"I don't like the guys Momma dates. Don't tell her that."

"Was your Momma dating the guy we found on the stairs?"

"Eew!" she squealed. "They said he was dead."

"He wasn't always dead. Was she seeing him before?"

"No," she said belligerently.

"Tamika, you know, I gotta ask you guys about what we found yesterday. And if any of you know anything, then we can help."

Her little attitude pricked up and Jim imagined Tamika standing there with her hands on her hips. "And what's a four-year-old gonna know about a dead body? She thought he was just sleeping."

"What about you? Would you know anything?"

There was a knock on the door. "Detectives?" an officer asked. "The girlfriend just left. She said she had things to do and she just left."

Jim nearly swore aloud. He hadn't talked to the girlfriend yet himself. "Is she coming back?" he asked. The stuffed toy hit him in the head when he turned away from the playpen, but he ignored it and stood. "Thanks for talking to us," he said to Tamika, then called Hank over and left the bedroom.

"I don't know where she went or if she's coming back."

"Maybe we can catch her."

A hand caught his arm and he stopped without turning.

"I'll give you a little of that faith you were talking about," Artez said. The man sounded extremely nervous, like he was looking over his shoulder even in the tiny apartment. "Look into a man named Pipsqueak. Street name, that's all I can give you. Now get us out of here."

"Momma!" Tamika yelled from the bedroom. "Clem just dumped the bubble bath on Cindy!"

"What about your girlfriend?"

"She ain't ever coming back. I didn't think she'd go, but…"

"And I talked the whole time," Tamika yelled, "and I didn't tell him nothin' and I didn't let DeWanda talk at all neither!" She sounded proud.

Jim nodded. "We'll look into it. Karen? Let's see if we can find the girlfriend. What was her name again?"

"Samantha. That was her name," Artez said, sounding sad.

Jim and Karen and Hank took the stairs quickly downward. Jim couldn't hear any footsteps below and knew the chances of them catching Samantha were slim, but he had to try. He nearly stumbled, moving too quickly, and slowed down, taking hold of the railing.

"You're going to move them?" Karen asked, out of breath when they hit the landing. "All because of a street name?"

Jim nodded. "Mostly because the kids, at least, knew there was a person on the stairs, even if they did think he was just sleeping." They left the building and Jim kept a hand on Karen's shoulder while she surveyed the street up and down, ready to move with her if she saw anything.

"Nothing," she said after a moment. "Let's drive up and down a couple blocks. If she's on foot, we might find her."

"I never got to talk to the girlfriend," Jim said as he settled into the front seat of Karen's car.

"So think optimistically and maybe we'll find her."

"Tell me about her."

"Five-three, kinda pale—"

"Like, what'd you two talk about?"

"Nothing much."

"No insight into the case?"

"Like I said, I don't know what these people know, but I'd be willing to bet it doesn't have anything to do with our DOA."

"Except the kids knew he was there. Wouldn't you guess the parents would, too?"

"Yeah, I would. And I think they didn't have a phone and they'd found a nice dry place to stay and they didn't want to screw it up by bring cops all over the place."

"You'd stay there? With the body?"

"I don't know. If the door was closed, maybe."

"Yeah, but, there's a dead body, Karen."

"Squeamish, Jim?" Karen laughed. "It's not a zombie. It might start smelling a little, but it's just a body. Maybe it was even dead before they got there."

Jim was stunned. "Karen?" It just didn't sound like her. Or maybe it did; she was always trying to prove that women were as sick and depraved and homicidal as men.

"As long as I don't have to see the guy die… And we're saying I'm cold and hungry and homeless and I can't get a job."

"That doesn't mean you're just gonna be able to overlook a dead body, though. And you've got kids. And this guy died. And if he died, that means the place isn't all that safe for your kids, right? 'Cause whoever killed him could come back."

"You're babbling, Jim."

"I'm just trying to figure it out."

"Is this what your brain sounds like when you're thinking and go all comatose on us? 'Cause if it is, it's probably best you don't think out loud too often."

Jim set his lips and looked away. "I just can't figure out how DeLana could overlook a dead body—I mean, she's not some stupid drugged-up mom."

"So maybe she really didn't know. Maybe Artez knew and was keeping it from everyone else so they wouldn't freak."

"Maybe."

"I don't see her. Should we head back?"

"Yeah. But Karen, what did you and Samantha talk about?"

Karen made a noise that Jim equated with her blushing. "Today she asked me about birth control and planned parenthood."

Jim smiled. "Anything else?"

"Geez, Jim, don't you trust me? I know how to do an interview."

"I trust you. I just feel like I'm missing something and I wish I knew what it was."

Karen took a deep breath. "She didn't want a boy. She said she couldn't have another one. I thought she meant she didn't want more kids, but after talking to the girl, I wonder if she's not looking for a way to just not have any more boys."

"And yesterday?"

"I asked her about the guy and she started talking about a sale at Bloomingdales and she was all wistful about not being able to go there anymore."

"No problems with her and Artez? 'Cause she could always get a job or another boyfriend who has a job…"

"Didn't seem like it. She was kinda out of it, so I didn't push."

"Drugs?"

"Not that I could tell."

Jim rubbed a hand over his mouth.

"What else?"

"What else? There's nothing else."

"Nothing? We have someone who's just abandoned her baby and wandered off even though her life may be in danger. And you just talked to her."

"She didn't say anything about leaving. She wanted me to join her church, even wrote the address in my notebook. And just so you know, the church is right down the street from my apartment, and it's been closed for years, okay? I think it might be on the city's condemned list.

"She wanted to know if my cell phone takes pictures, which it doesn't, by the way. She wanted to know where I got my jacket. If you need to know, I got it on-line. She told me her dad died when she was two. She told me she's not sure Rico's the father of her baby. She wanted to name the baby Inclement because he didn't sleep for the first month. Oh, and she wanted me to know that if the world ended, it was all her fault."

Jim was silent for a few minutes mulling it all over. "Great."

"Certifiable."

"Doubly great."

Karen parked the car and got out. Jim let Hank out of the car, his hand brushing over the dog. He wrinkled his nose; Hank's head was covered in what felt suspiciously like grape jelly.

"Hey, Dunbar," Marty said with a snicker, "what'd you have for breakfast?"

"Jim, you get beaned by Bozo the Clown on the way back?" Tom asked, laughing.

"You know your head's a funny shape, but your mouth didn't move."

"Is that ectoplasm?" Tom started humming the theme song to Ghostbusters. ""Who you gonna call?" Jim Dunbar," he sang.

"Singing?" Fisk asked, stepping into the squad room. "Jim," he said, sounding surprised. He stopped walking. "Did you fall in a dumpster?" he asked worriedly.

Jim ignored them and pulled off his coat.

"Uh, Jim, you got something in your hair there," Marty said, leaning back in his chair so it squeaked.

"Yeah, Marty, I know." He listened as Karen walked up. No one commented on her appearance, so he wondered how she'd managed to stay jelly-free.

"Karen, how'd the interview go?"

"Eh, interesting, but we didn't learn much."

"Interesting?" Marty spat out. "Looking at Dunbar, that must have been one hell of an interview."

Jim let a hand stray to his head and found he'd missed a huge glob of jelly. He left the glob, not having anything to clean it with and wiped his hand on his pants. He sat on the edge of his desk. "We got a name to check. Pipsqueak."

Marty snickered.

"I'll check it out," Tom said and laughed.

"It's hard to take you seriously right now, Dunbar," Marty said.

"Pipsqueak? You're not making that up, are you? Send me off on a wild goose chase?" Tom asked.

"Guys," Karen reprimanded.

"Yeah, but what happened?" Fisk asked.

"It was an interview, nothing out of the ordinary," Jim said with a straight face.

"You got slimed, man," Tom said.

Jim grabbed his coat. "I'm going to lunch."

"You're already a side dish."

"I'm gonna stop at home and shower, if that's okay, boss?"

"Please, Jim," Fisk said.

Jim was cautious walking back into the squad room after lunch. He let Hank walk off ahead like usual, but lunchtime was often hectic in the squad, people coming and going. People had a tendency to leave things lying around. Just the other day he'd tripped over a box the postal service had left.

It was quiet, as most everyone was still at lunch. Marty wasn't there, he could just tell. And Tom had driven out to check on the witnesses, wherever they were being moved.

Jim had just turned his back on Karen's desk when he heard a rustle from over there, then a small shriek. Jim froze, then straightened and turned quickly in a defensive fighting stance.

"Karen?" he asked.

"Yeah," she said, breathing a little harder than usual.

"What's going on?"

"Nothing. A, uh, spider. It's kinda big."

Jim dropped his hands, though his fists were still clenched. He almost smiled, but he knew better from years of dealing with Christie. Christie was spider-phobic, too. He'd learned that everyone was scared of something; it wasn't something they could help. Involuntary reactions.

"It just surprised me, that's all," she said. She was still standing a few feet away from her desk.

"Do you need me to take care of it?" Jim asked.

"Don't patronize me," Karen snapped.

"I'm not. Just offering." Karen was quiet. She didn't snap, "well, don't," like he expected her to.

"I don't need you to take care of anything," she finally said.

Jim shrugged. "Okay. I'm just designated Spider Disposer at home."

"Fine, dispose of it."

"Just tell me where it is and I'll squish it."

"Take it out, okay?"

"Out?"

"Outside."

"You want me to squish it outside?"

"No, I want you to take it outside."

"You catch it, I promise I'll take it outside."

"You can't catch it?"

"What's the matter, Karen, you scared to kill something?" Marty asked, walking up.

"Not likely," Jim told Karen, ignoring Marty. "It's a little easier to just kill it."

"Really, Jim, is it?" Marty asked snidely.

"What's the matter, Marty, you never kill anything before?" Jim asked.

"I don't need you to stick up for me, Jim," Karen said quietly.

"Well, we all know you've killed someone before, Jim," Marty said.

Jim bit his lip. He hadn't been thinking of the bank.

"So tell me, Jim," Marty said, sitting down. His chair squeaked and his voice moved lower. Jim moved his gaze down and clenched his fists like he was ready for a fight. "If that was a perp… It's just easier to kill it, huh? Why bother taking it into custody?"

Jim turned away. "It's a little different, Marty. Perps make noise, spiders don't."

"Do they? Do they really, Jim? What kind of noise does a perp make?"

Jim sat down and ignored the condescending attitude. He wasn't going to stoop to Marty's level.

Thud! echoed through the squad, the sound of a high heeled shoe slammed against a desk, then dropped back on the floor.

"There, are you two satisfied now?" Karen asked.

He'd never told Dr. Galloway specifically what was wrong with his marriage. Heck, he wasn't sure he knew for sure himself. But the good Doctor was aware that it was less than sunny side up.

"Hey, Doc, can I ask you something confidentially?"

Jim heard the other man shift in his chair before answering. "You know, Jim, everything you say here is confidential."

Jim couldn't help but smile. They'd been through that before. "Right, right. I guess I meant something personal. Not job-related."

"You can ask anything. But you know you might not always get the answer you want."

"Are you turning Buddhist on me, Doc?"

Dr. Galloway chuckled. "I learned from a lot of different people. What's your question?"

Jim shifted uncomfortably and grabbed both arms of the chair to keep himself from bolting. It seemed like a huge chair, like the one in the old Memorex commercial where the guy gets blown away. "It's about my wife…"

"Okay."

"Her birthday was a couple weeks ago…"

"Okay."

"And I forgot."

Silence.

"I got her a present, so everything's taken care of—bad choice of words." Jim shook his head. "It's not all taken care of. Doc, why hasn't she said anything? What would make a woman just not say anything either way?"

"Did you give it to her personally?"

Jim shifted awkwardly. "Well, no. She wasn't home…" He didn't say he was almost glad there hadn't been a confrontation that night, even if the waiting was killing him.

"So you didn't say anything to her about forgetting her birthday?"

"No…"

"Why do you think she should say anything?"

"Because it's her birthday!"

"So it's her responsibility?"

Jim kept his gaze averted. Even if he couldn't see, he still couldn't attempt eye contact when he was under scrutiny. "I just want to know why she hasn't said anything. I thought you might be able to explain women to me, Doc."

Doctor Galloway chuckled. "No one can do that, Jim. Not even me."

Jim's head snapped up. "Why hasn't she yelled at me yet?"

"Jim." It sounded like the doctor was leaning forward. "Is it her responsibility to ruin the very thought of her own birthday with a fight? Do you want her to yell at you?"

"No."

"Do you think she wants to yell at you?"

Jim had to think about that.

"You've put her in an awkward position. If she says anything now, it's up to her to bring it up, to set the tone of the conversation. If she's angry, will you get mad at her for sounding angry? If she's forgiving, will you just forget this and not learn from it?"

Jim hung his head.

"And from what you've told me, whatever happened between you two before, she might not want to bring that up. But if she brings this up…"

"She'll have to bring everything else up."

"Are you ready for that?"

Jim thought it over and let out a low whistle. "It would be one hell of a fight."

"You know what's strange," Jim had told Galloway before leaving his appointment, "I've started questioning if I've ever loved my wife. Ever, even before."

"Have you ever questioned that—ever, even before?"

Jim was quiet for a moment and rubbed his eye with the back of his hand. He usually didn't wear the sunglasses around Galloway—he was finding it was better not to try to hide anything from the man. "Yeah, I did, before I got shot…" That had been a rough time, before he got shot—rough for him and Christie, and for guilt over what he had done. Christie was the perfect wife—why question his ability to love her?

"Look at it this way, Jim… Maybe you're right back where you started from. You're yourself again."

Jim had left then, not sure how he felt about that.

He was sure of one thing now—he didn't want to be the man he had been before. Like he'd told Karen, he'd done a lot of growing up since then, or so he liked to think. And before he saw Christie again, he'd better figure out how he did feel. He headed to Morrissey's instead of home.

"Hey, Jim! Be with you in a minute," Gray called when Jim walked in the door.

Jim nudged Hank in the direction of the counter to find an empty barstool. The place sounded like it was hopping with the after-work crowd. The voices wrapped around him, but there were too many for him to pick out a single conversation. The perfect atmosphere for thinking.

Apparently the end stool by the door wasn't the most popular place to sit because it was empty again. To Jim it was a great place to sit—out of the way, just a place to drink and think. Before, he probably wouldn't have liked to be so far from all the action, but now…

Yeah, he'd changed. Hopefully for the better. Hopefully he'd grown up. And he loved Christie, right?

"The usual?" he heard muffled nearby, but sometimes he had trouble pulling himself out of his reverie, figuring out if someone was speaking to him or not. "Uh, Jim? The usual?" Gray repeated.

Jim looked up. "Yeah." He heard a clunk immediately in front of him and thought Gray must have already gotten the beer before thinking he should ask. That was the trouble with no longer being a regular. He reached out and felt the bottle already beginning to sweat. "Thanks."

There was no reply and Jim figured Gray was off helping someone else. Probably for the best—what he couldn't confide in Galloway he wasn't likely to share with the guys at the bar.

He wondered if the guys were still there, same as always. Just maybe too scared to come up and say something. He shook his head a little. He wasn't going to worry about it. That was their problem; Christie was his.

He didn't think she wanted to fight with him. She wanted him to talk to her—he'd never been very good at that, she shouldn't expect him to change. She wanted to help him—he'd never been good at accepting help, he didn't want to change. It was probably her maternal instinct coming out. But he'd always been the one to take care of her; he couldn't accept the reverse. He wanted to take care of her like always and feel useful.

Maybe she wants the same thing? a voice in his head asked. The voice sounded suspiciously like Doctor Galloway. They must be spending way too much time together if Jim could predict what he would say to every thought in his head.

What, Doc? She wants me to take care of her like usual? Or she wants to take my role, take care of me and feel useful?

Maybe both.

She can't have it both ways!

Jim downed his beer and pushed the empty bottle to the end of the bar so Gray could take care of it when he got a chance. There was anger bubbling up with the beer. And Christie wasn't even there, these weren't really her thoughts—he was projecting his own feelings about her, as Galloway would have told him.

He heard another beer bottle thunk on the counter and reached out.

Even if Christie did want to take care of him, was that so wrong? He only had a problem with it because he was stubborn and independent to a fault.

He wondered if Karen felt that way about him, if she got frustrated because he hated asking for help. Or maybe if she got frustrated because sometimes he needed more help… Did he take advantage of Karen?

Would it kill him to let Christie help him?

What if he didn't need help?

Had he been feeling bitter toward her lately because they couldn't go out and do the things they used to? Is that why he was thinking they'd never had anything in common, thinking he'd never enjoyed going out to the opera and to classy clubs? It was hard for him to mingle now. Like in this bar, he had no idea who was around. Marty could have been there. Or Terry. Or Anne. And even if he'd wandered around saying 'how's it going' to everyone, he'd never know they were there if they didn't answer. He hated that.

Christie was just trying to bring him up in the world, getting him to go places outside of his comfort zone. He wouldn't have minded going to the opera with her, broadening his horizons, snuggling close… But if there'd been a party afterward… It was the damn mingling—he needed to rely on her to tell him who was around, interject him into conversations. He didn't want to have to rely on her just to hang out at a bar with his friends!

Clay Simmon's party had been plaguing him lately. She thought that was normal. That was one of the things he'd always hated, all those stuffy people, trying to talk to them. Before he'd been blind, he would have relished any excuse to hang back at the side and just watch. But he'd been the dutiful husband and made the rounds, simpering to the people Christie wanted to get in good with.

She couldn't show him off as well now. He wasn't perfect anymore. And so she'd just left him instead of taking him with.

Hell, that wasn't right. He'd never been perfect. Sure, he was probably harder to show off now, yeah, but he hadn't told her the problem he had socializing, hadn't asked her to help.

He couldn't ask her for help. He could ask for help from almost anyone except Christie.

Jim sighed and slumped over the bar.

"Drunk already?" Gray asked good-naturedly.

Jim looked up, surprised that anyone was around. He laughed when he realized he could tune out a whole bar and not even notice.

"You looked kinda scary there for a while."

"Did I scare away some customers?"

"No more than usual. Anything wrong?"

"Nah, just trying to decide whether or not I hate my wife."

"Ah," Gray said wisely. "You know, there's a little love and hate in every marriage. I think you always hate your wife. Just keep in mind, it's more fun to concentrate on the nice stuff."

Jim nodded. "That's wise. Very wise."

"Yeah, I know."

Jim laughed.

"I've been standing here for years, listening to people. That's the best advice I've got."

"You got anything else?"

"Yeah. Don't step in front of a bus."

Jim's nightmares often included killing the gunman at the bank. At first he'd thought the scene replayed over and over night after night because that had been the last time he'd ever seen anything. Traumatic, yes, but he wasn't sure the loss of his sight compared with the new theory that had started to plague him.

He'd killed a man. Every night, in his dreams, he killed him again. And again.

It hadn't been like the Gulf, when they hadn't been able to see the enemy up close most of the time. This had been a man, standing twenty feet away. And even though the gunman had been shooting at anything that moved, had even shot a couple other cops, Jim found himself shooting straight into the bulletproof vest. Why? Because he hadn't wanted to kill the guy? Had he believed they'd actually be able to take him alive? It was obvious he didn't plan to let himself be arrested. The only thing to do was shoot him in the head, not waste all those bullets.

Not cost two other cops their lives while he played at shooting a bulletproof vest. You can't do that—that's why they're bulletproof.

He'd finally killed the gunman, though he barely remembered doing so. He knew he had, he'd taken a life. Even if he'd had to, even if he barely remembered, it didn't sit well with him.

And maybe it was partly his fault the other officers had died.

Maybe that's why the nightmares came.

Jim was lying awake in bed. He'd almost been asleep, lying there, replaying the day, trying to add pictures to what he hadn't been able to see, waiting for Christie to come home from wherever she was. That's when the conversation about killing the spider popped back into his head and his eyes had popped back open. He felt guilty now, making Karen kill that spider.

And at the bank, maybe he'd wanted to give the guy a fighting chance. Or maybe he'd just hoped someone else would step up and kill him so Jim wouldn't have to, wouldn't have to watch him die, wouldn't have to feel any guilt.