Chapter Nineteen
"Hank, stay," Jim said. He patted the German Shepherd on the head through the open window of Karen's car.
Unbeknownst to Jim, Hank watched his master with mistrust. The mistrust was masked by the tongue hanging out the side of his mouth, but it was there nonetheless. Hank always sat in the car and wondered what Karen and Jim did when they left him. Probably had fun doing people things that Hank was sure he'd have fun doing, too, if they'd only teach him the rules. The suspicions usually only lasted until Jim and Karen were out of sight because he'd get distracted by people walking by and cars passing and low-flying birds and he'd start daydreaming about doing what his master always told people he'd do—go after bad guys. Hank thought he had the ear-markings of a darn good police dog, if he'd only get the chance.
"One of these days I'm gonna call PETA on you, Dunbar," Karen said good-naturedly as she patted Hank on the head.
Jim took her arm. "I always worry he'll get tangled up in something bad if I bring him to check on leads like this."
"So you let him make drug deals out the car window?"
"Whatever helps him pass the time."
"Big building," Karen described as she opened the door. "Huge warehouse down here. I think it was a five or six story building, dunno about a basement. Pretty empty. Giant cable spools, some insulation, electrical things, dunno what that is."
It sounded like she was wrinkling up her nose and Jim smiled. "Any signs of life? Empty food containers, trash cans, clothes?" They wandered in further and Jim could feel the vast space and emptiness, and hear odd echoes off the high ceiling, probably open with metal beams in a building like this.
"None. There's a few other entrances, and here's some stairs going up." She paused and he felt her turning and looking around. "Look, I'm gonna wander upstairs. You stay here?"
Jim furrowed his brow, but he let go of Karen's arm. She was probably thinking he'd slow her down, and he couldn't exactly help her look. "I'll watch the front door," he said.
She made an affirmative noise and started to walk away.
Jim grabbed the walkie-talkie and quickly held it out. "Here, take this."
She stopped and turned. "Nah, you should keep it."
"Karen," he said patiently, sounding probably a lot like her dad, "you're the one more likely to see something that needs to be called in."
"Right…"
"Besides, I have my cell phone, and if someone comes running down the stairs, I'll take care of it."
He gave her the walkie-talkie and listened to her go, making a special note of where he heard her reach the stairs, his only knowledge of the dimensions of the room.
He waited a minute to make sure it stayed quiet, then pulled out his cane. He had to do something, make himself useful. He walked the dimensions of the room. Right, left, right, left, he tapped the cane to one side then the other to make sure his way was clear. It was a bit like the community service that time when he was younger, stabbing litter on the end of a stick. If only his blindness could be useful like that at the same time.
Jim was leaning against the wall by the stairs when he heard footsteps coming from across the room. Karen had been gone 20 minutes or so and he'd taken the time to familiarize himself with the room. It really was a huge warehouse of a room, with high ceilings that created weird echoes, and poles every 20 feet or so.
Those weren't Karen's footsteps.
"Hiya, Jim, playing watchdog?" Marty asked snidely.
"Yeah, Marty, I am." Jim sneered back at the footsteps still ten yards away. "That's what I do all day, isn't it? Play cop, play watchdog."
"Yeah, you're a real player, aren't you?"
"Next week I'm gonna be a priest."
"You should try a brain surgeon."
"You can be my first patient, Marty, how's that sound?"
"You know, Jim, you really did surprise me. I didn't think you'd last past Be Kind to the Handicapped Week, but you really have stuck it out."
"Geez, Marty."
"You're blind, right, Jim?"
"Yeah."
"So you're handicapped."
Jim sighed.
"Just tell me, Jim, is it a handicap?"
"You want me to tell you I'm not perfect?"
"I don't think you were ever perfect. Just tell me, is it a handicap?"
Marty sounded so calm and reasonable, almost chillingly like Leonard Mattis, the convict up at Sing-Sing. Jim sighed. But when he thought it over, he couldn't deny it in any way. "Yeah, Marty, it is." He didn't expect a thank you for his admission.
"Okay," Marty said. "So tell me, what if something happened to Karen?"
"Nothing's going to—"
"Tell me, Jim. Or I could go ahead and tell you. See, here's you wandering around a crime scene while Karen's off who-knows-where. If something happens to her, can you find her? Can you help? Probably not. So that's your fault. If something happens to you, I admit, I'd feel guilty. So I'll take responsibility, even if I'm not there. But if something happens to Karen, I don't want to feel responsible for letting you be her partner."
"Letting me—"
"I respect your ability to think, but what are you doing here today, Jim? Do you plan to be a liability if something happens?"
"If I think something's liable to happen, I'll stay back, Marty. But we're just here checking on a lead." Jim's fists were clenched. If the other detectives knew he was scared sometimes, if they knew he'd talked to Galloway about that very possibility of something happening to Karen and how helpless he felt, what would they say? He'd learned years ago that if you show fear, it becomes contagious. He'd been terrified when he first found out he was blind. Christie'd felt it, had gone through the hell with him, had coddled him and cried for him. If he showed fear now, then what?
Jim wasn't ready to have it out with Marty, even if they were alone. They were on a case and needed to act like it. "You been upstairs?"
"Yeah."
"You seen Karen?"
"No… Was she up there?"
"Yeah, somewhere."
"I didn't see her." Marty sounded worried.
Jim listened carefully for any signs of life, but the building was too big. "You have a walkie-talkie?"
"No, Tom has it. He's out back."
Oh, sht, Hank though, watching a couple shady characters walk past the car. Why didn't I ever pay attention to how they open these doors? He barked a warning to Jim just before the door to the building slammed shut, then he laid down and put one paw over his head. This was so not good.
"Marty? What do you want from me? You want me to quit my job? Giving up the gun wasn't enough? Or giving up the gun was just supposed to help me transition into not working anymore?"
Marty didn't say anything, but Jim could tell from his breathing that he was worked up, wanted to say something.
"What happened? I thought we were over this."
The breathing quickened.
"Okay, what'd I do? Obviously I offended you again. I've tried to be more mellow, I've given up the gun, what more do you want from me?"
Marty started to walk away, but in order to leave he had to walk closer to Jim. Jim stood his ground. "Just tell me!" Jim reached for Marty's arm, but Marty moved away before Jim could touch him.
"Jim, I just want to know—how could you do it? You have a beautiful wife and I thought she was crazy about you. How could you cheat on her?"
Jim's mouth dropped open as he stared in Marty's direction. "Is that what this is about?"
"Yes!"
Jim turned away. "I never said I was a nice guy, Marty."
"Oh, gee, great, Jim, that just makes everything all better."
"I made a mistake, Marty. I hope you can understand that." Marty was silent and Jim had no way to gauge his feelings. "DeLana was wrong about you," Jim said finally. "You're a good guy, Marty." Marty still didn't say anything. "You can't stand to see anyone hurt, even in something like this. You look out for people."
"I'm not a saint. I just don't like you."
"I know. I wish someone like you had been around when I first started dating Anne—hell, when I first saw her."
"You still would have done it."
"Maybe. I don't know." Jim sighed. "I've been doing a lot of apologizing lately. Let me tell you I'm sorry."
"For what?"
"Because you like to think the best of people."
"You're sorry for that?"
"No, I'm sorry I don't fit into that category." It made sense to Jim now—Marty'd thought he was a stand-up guy, as he'd once said. Jim had thought it was about his blindness, but Galloway was right; he needed to re-evaluate his attitude, figure out how he wanted to define himself. "I'm sorry."
"I don't think I'm the one you should be apologizing to."
"I already apologized to Anne. And to Christie."
They were silent a minute until Marty said, "How'd Karen get over it? I mean, it was her friend."
Jim shrugged. "She got over it." He set his jaw. He'd have to ask Karen why she'd told Marty, of all people, about his affair.
Marty shook his head and started to walk away.
A bark pierced the air.
Jim put out a hand and grabbed Marty's arm as the other detective tried to move past. Marty tried to shake him off, but Jim held his grip, shaking his head. He lowered his voice before Marty could say anything. "Hank doesn't bark," he said quietly. "He's trained not to."
Marty stopped trying to pull away.
Both detectives froze, listening. Jim let go of Marty's arm to let him look around freely.
"Karen's upstairs somewhere," Jim whispered. He pointed for the stairs, hoping Marty would go.
"Got it," Marty said.
Jim listened to his footsteps head away quietly even as another set of quiet footsteps came from the direction of the front door. For a moment the steps blended, giving the impression of one person walking in Dolby surround sound, but Jim closed off the sound of Marty's steps so he could concentrate on the other person.
It would be best not to be caught out in the open like this. He couldn't be caught unaware. Whoever it was, whoever had Hank worried, they could be armed. They could shoot first and ask questions later.
Jim moved behind a pillar. The support was nearly three feet wide, more than enough to hide him.
Marty's steps had reached the bottom step, but instead of ascending, they paused.
Go, Jim willed him. Get out and find Karen. If Karen was safe, Jim wouldn't have any qualms about staying out of the way behind the pillar. They could all get out of there and he wouldn't risk being a liability.
A footstep paused right behind him and Jim silently cursed himself for turning his attention to Marty for even a second.
"I see a shadow that's not supposed to be here," a gravelly voice said. It was a young voice, but lowered and with the words spoken from the back of the throat, like someone trying to sound sinister. Jim shivered, more at the meaning than the planned affect of the voice. There must be windows, daylight. For all he knew, he'd been spotted from the other side of the building before he'd even ducked behind the pillar.
It was better to face the opponent on the offensive than to wait for an attack. Jim stepped out into the open, ready. He faced the place the voice had come from.
And realized Marty still hadn't moved.
"You're not supposed to be here," the low voice said.
Jim found himself suddenly doubled up with a fist in his stomach, but he'd managed to keep the wind from being knocked out of him because he'd been prepared, his stomach muscles clenched.
He hadn't felt his attacker move, so the fist had caught him off-guard. But now that he knew the name of the game, knew the other man didn't come in peace, he was ready.
"Jim!" Marty called. Already the footsteps were headed back in his direction.
Jim took advantage of Marty as a diversion and lashed out quickly with an uppercut at his opponent, connecting beautifully and with such force he could feel pain in his own hand that he knew would be gravely multiplied in the other man.
"Go!" Jim ordered Marty.
"Yeah, you take care of that," Marty said. The footsteps hurried away. They echoed in the stairwell for a moment, then were swallowed in the huge building.
Jim's fist connected again. If he could continue the onslaught, hopefully the other man would be in too much pain to attack back, and Jim could keep control of the situation. For how long, until what, he wasn't sure, but if he could incapacitate—
Jim suddenly found himself flat on his back
Marty's footsteps kept hesitating on the stairs. He couldn't keep an even tempo. He'd left Jim down there alone—what kind of a cop did that? Sure, Jim wasn't his partner, so he wasn't as responsible for his well-being, and he'd been asked to make sure Karen was all right, but that didn't mean Marty wasn't worried. He always worried about the other cops in his squad.
And Jim couldn't see. He wasn't on familiar terrain. He was open to being ambushed by anyone else who was lurking by an outside door. Who knew how many people were at the building?
Marty shook his head. Jim was a cop. He'd been reinstated, so he must be able to take care of himself. The department would never allow him in a situation he couldn't handle. Just look at how he'd dealt with that Lyman guy trying to take his gun—Marty'd been glad at that point that he'd backed down from Jim's challenge himself. Jim could take care of himself.
But Jim didn't have a gun anymore. Marty felt responsible for that, partly. He'd kept goading Jim, plugging away at him about the gun. But maybe a belly gun in an up-close struggle wasn't such a bad idea.
And then there was the afternoon at the deli, holding the coffee in front of Dunbar's face and realizing he couldn't see it. The time the man in Chinatown had run right past him, had even run into him, and he'd been unable to react fast enough. There were a hundred other little instances just like that over the past several months. And each time, it was usually something small, but it would just stop Marty in his tracks—this guy can't see.
Jim wasn't his partner. Marty's only duty right now was to make sure Karen was safe, then the two of them could go join Jim, help him out down there.
As long as the guy wasn't armed. Jim had no way to hold his own if the guy was armed.
Marty swore at himself.
Yet, Jim had told Marty to go. That took balls, offering to face a guy he couldn't size up, couldn't tell if he was armed.
Jim's first thought had been of Karen, making sure his partner was safe. Marty had to give him credit for that. He'd sent Marty to check on her, knowing Marty could find her more easily, keep her safe. He put his trust in Marty. Even if it meant sacrificing himself.
Jim stood back up. The other man let him. He opened his mind. It was kind of like opening his perceptions, relying on instincts he never would have trusted before. He'd started karate and other Eastern disciplines after he'd been blinded in order to add to the abilities he already had through boxing and defense classes for cops. He wanted to make himself more valuable, yes, but he also wanted to make sure he never left himself open to attack, make sure he could take care of himself and his partner.
He stared as closely at his opponent as he could, mostly out of habit, but partly hoping the man wouldn't notice he couldn't see. He didn't want the blindness to be perceived as a weakness and used against him. Jim didn't think that, if the guy knew he was blind, he'd let up a even little, giving Jim the upper hand. That didn't seem to be the type of guy they were dealing with.
But who was he? The voice hadn't been that of Uncle Josiah, no one Jim could relate to this case.
"You look very relaxed," the voice said, still in that purposefully low register. "You know you're about to die, right?"
Jim shrugged out of his overcoat and tossed it aside so it wouldn't hamper him. Momentarily the sound of the coat dropping covered the breathing of the instigator, but Jim whipped his head around when he heard the steps moving to his right. He breathed evenly and raised his hands, prepared. He was an easy guy to get a hit on, but the blow would never disable him. He might not be able to catch a swing in mid-air, but he could deflect it so it would cause minimal damage.
The other man laughed.
Jim's fists clenched. It wasn't the sound of a man not taking the fight seriously, it was the sound of someone who thoroughly enjoyed physical conflict.
There were footsteps running down the hallway, stopping periodically to look in each office, then running again.
Karen froze. Jim couldn't run down a hallway and look in an office, so it wasn't him. She was glad for a moment that he was downstairs waiting, wouldn't have to deal with whoever was coming. Though she sure would have felt better if there'd been two of them up there, not just her.
She couldn't imagine, standing where she was, listening to the footsteps echoing down the hallway, knowing it was only a matter of seconds before whoever it was burst into this room, and then not knowing immediately who it was as soon as they stuck their head in. Jim didn't have that ability to just look up and know who was there. Her heart beat faster just thinking about it, about not knowing.
She pressed up against the wall, her weapon drawn. She'd only have a second to assess the situation.
Whoever it was was panting. Sounded like they were only a door away.
She was six flights up. Even if she had to fire, if the sound carried, it would take Jim several minutes to climb all the stairs to get to her. She was on her own, she realized. She shouldn't have left Jim, knowing how big the building was.
Footsteps. They slid to a stop. She leveled her gun at head-height. The door was pushed open, not even carefully, it slammed against the wall.
Marty was wide-eyed and panting as he surveyed the room.
"Marty?" Karen exclaimed.
"Do you trust Jim?" he asked.
The panic in his voice, she'd never heard it before.
"Yeah…" she said slowly, wondering what Jim had done. She knew they were fighting again, but she couldn't imagine either one doing anything illegal. Maybe they'd finally gotten into a scrap downstairs—
"You think he can take care of himself?"
"I was only going to be gone a few minutes. What happened? I didn't think if I left—"
"Someone's down there."
Karen hurried for the door. "Why didn't you call?" She held up the radio.
"Tom has it."
"Where's Tom?"
"Call him, maybe he's closer."
Karen started to ask Tom where he was.
"Maybe Tom can get there, go check on him," Marty kept talking.
"Geez, Marty, what happened?" she said to him and the radio.
Marty grabbed the radio. "Tom, you see anyone come in?"
"Nah, I'm still outside. You should see all the chemicals in these dumpsters. This guy's making something."
"Go inside, carefully. Check on Dunbar." Then he called for back-up, just in case. Marty thrust the radio back at Karen. "Come on." They hurried for the stairs.
"Who's down there?"
"Some guy. Jim can hold his own in a fight, right?"
"Well, he used to box…"
Jim bent his knees to lower his center of balance. He put all his weight on his left foot and swept out with his right, catching both of his attacker's feet while lifting the guy's body and throwing it back. The move was effective, landing them both on the ground, Jim on top, sliding his forearm over the tender part of the man's throat. He held one of the man's arms with is left hand, the other he knelt on. "Who are you?"
The man moved to throw Jim off-balance, sacrificing himself to more pressure on his windpipe in order to move Jim. He broke from Jim's grasp, barely even gasping for air. Grabbing both of Jim's arms, pinning them to his sides, he rolled. "You look surprised. But you'll never get anywhere in life if you're not willing to take chances, sacrifice yourself. I knew you'd pull back and not kill me."
Jim concentrated on each of the man's limbs, pinning him down, looking for a weakness.
"I, on the other hand, could easily kill you."
Jim moved before the man could come down on his own windpipe. They rolled again and the other man jumped up.
"A cop, huh? Detective James Dunbar."
Jim was at a loss for a second, then the man threw something to the side. Must have taken his badge during the scuffle.
The man was on him again, seizing Jim's coat, using it momentarily to tie him up until Jim wrenched himself free and listened as the suit jacket was flung aside, fluttering in the air.
The man charged, lowered, hitting Jim with the shoulder like a sumo wrestler, pushing him back. "What kind of cop," the man asked testily, "doesn't carry a gun?"
He threw Jim over his shoulder.
Jim landed and rolled out, back to his feet. He'd landed badly and his shoulder stung, but it wasn't enough to disable him.
"If you had a gun, you'd be dead by now!" he said with barely concealed outrage.
Jim refused to let the talk deter him. He had to take the offensive. While the other man's voice still echoed, he rushed forward, slamming into him, pushing him back, grabbing his collar in his left hand, getting a right hook in before the man spun away.
Jim followed the spin, countering with his left, then pulling the man down across his knee. He threw him back.
Then realized his mistake. He'd compromised his hold, lost contact.
The man recovered quickly and Jim found himself reeling from a blow to the back of his head. He shook it off, told himself he was lucky, wouldn't have to worry about double vision, then quickly carried on.
Marty thought about that guy Jim attacked during that interview right after he'd gotten back from Hoboken. Marty'd known Jim was tense, pissed. Taken him into the interview room, pretending to be a drug dealer. He hadn't expected Jim to lunge across the table like that. Hadn't expected his aim to be so accurate. Jim would have done serious damage to that guy if Marty hadn't pulled him off in time. Marty'd underestimated him then, had actually had to throw Jim up against the lockers, not just pull him back. He still wasn't sure how much of it was just Jim pretending so the guy wouldn't suspect he was a cop, and how much was actually him seeing how much he'd be allowed to rough the guy up before being pulled back.
That had been the day Jim really proved his worth to Marty. Not just the grappling, but how he'd managed not to blow his cover, even though they'd taken his dog, how he'd never gotten on the other three about losing him, not ratting to the Chief of D's, not saying the other three had gotten lax and lost him, that's why he ended up in Jersey. How he'd kept on the case the whole time, when he must have had other things on his mind. How he'd kept cool, even though losing his dog had to have been eating him. The only time he'd shown it had been when he'd attacked the drug dealer in the interview room. Marty had to admit he'd been impressed by that.
Yeah, Jim could hold his own.
The silence of the stairwell was ripped apart by the echo of a gunshot.
Jim knew there was blood on his face. Something the attacker had had scratched him pretty good, once on the forehead, once on the cheek. A ring of some sort, he guessed, or a watch.
The other guy kept spitting and Jim started to think maybe one of his punches had dislodged a tooth or cut the inside of the guy's mouth. Probably he was spitting blood. It was hard to take that metallic, sour taste in the middle of a fight. Jim had almost slipped once in one of the spots the guy had spit, but he'd caught himself.
He tuned in closer. They were both panting. Jim's ribs were sore, though not broken. Bloodied and bruised, but no lasting damage yet. His shoulder throbbed from being thrown earlier.
The other man had found Jim's handcuffs and tossed them. Jim didn't have any hand-to-hand weaponry because he hadn't been expecting a fight. It would come down to last man standing. But the longer it dragged out, the more Jim hoped Marty and Karen would come running down the stairs and together the three of them could cuff him. One of them could draw their gun and stand back, threatening—
Unless the guy really was prepared to sacrifice himself. Maybe he was the diversion for someone else.
"If you had a gun, you'd be dead by now!"
The other man was an experienced pickpocket. He'd searched Jim for a gun without him realizing. He was probably experienced at disarming people, too. "…you'd be dead by now."
Good thing Marty hadn't been around.
Good thing Karen was upstairs.
Good thing he didn't have a gun.
And really, he didn't need one. He could finish this, what was he waiting for? Even if he snapped the guy's neck, so what? Assaulting a cop, Marty'd seen it, it was self-defense if anything happened. He didn't need to hold back, not when he was the more experienced fighter.
"Hey, detective, this is kinda fun, isn't it?" the man asked, then spit.
"Highlight of my day," Jim mumbled. He'd almost caught his breath, but the other man was still laboring, even as he laughed. Jim moved forward and straightened up. He put his hands up to protect himself.
"Aw, you don't like the friendly banter?" the other man asked, his voice dripping in pain.
Jim reached out and grabbed him in a choke hold. The guy was on his last legs, anyway, wouldn't be able to fight back, hadn't even tried to move away.
The guy reacted, though delayed, lashed out, sending them both sprawling, but Jim refused to let go. The guy elbowed him, but it was weak. Jim wasn't giving him an angle to get a good shot.
The guy wiggled some more and Jim let up just enough so he wouldn't actually snap the man's neck. If at all possible, they were bringing him in alive. He resituated, sitting the man up so he'd have less leverage to fight back. He kicked something with his foot.
Metal, not solid, small. His handcuffs.
The man went limp and Jim grabbed the cuffs, slapping them on and pushing the guy away.
"Jim?" Tom called from across the room.
Jim leaned back on his heels to catch his breath. Before he could assure Tom he was okay, a shot rang out, just to his left. A shot at Tom.
Jim was on his feet, running toward the gunshot. It had come just from his left, possibly someone had been coming to help the man he'd been fighting with, but he'd been so preoccupied, he hadn't noticed. Worry or surprise might have paralyzed him if his brain hadn't kicked him alert. He couldn't lose that echo or he'd lose the shooter. If he lost the shooter, they were all in trouble.
His body collided. At first he thought it was a pillar, but then it softened and tipped as he pushed.
"So you're not dead?" the new man asked.
Jim and he were sprawled on the floor. Most people being right-handed, Jim reached toward his left, to the man's right. Armed, Jim wasn't going to take any chances.
The new guy had just been reaching up to shoot him point-blank, though he didn't have a good grasp on his weapon. Disarmed in a second, Jim heard the gun go skittering.
Footsteps running.
If there was a third guy, he was in trouble. Or if the first one regained consciousness too soon. Jim hadn't bothered to put him out for long. He got in a couple good punches, kneeling over this big guy. "Tom?" he yelled.
"Right here," Tom said, sounding out of breath, getting closer. "He missed."
Jim couldn't hold the man, bigger than himself. The shooter rolled, got both feet up, and kicked Jim squarely in the chest, throwing him back. Jim landed hard on his shoulder, his head cracking on the floor. He groaned, tried to roll over, too disoriented to sit up until the floor stopped spinning like a merry-go-round.
He blinked and heard a scuffle, sat up quickly to help. He couldn't tell who was who, so he stayed back.
"Jim!" Tom grunted after a moment. "Cuff him."
"I used mine," Jim said as he scrambled over, not bothering to stand straight in case he lost his balance. He could hear the suspect writhing on the ground, and hear Tom's labored breathing as he fought to keep the guy pinned. Jim touched Tom's back and could feel him struggling against the guy's strength. He fumbled with Tom's coat, then grabbed Tom's handcuffs from the back of his pants. The familiar apparatus slid into his hands and he got them on the man's wrists as easily as when he'd been sighted.
Jim sat back. He could feel sweat trickling down his neck. He was starting to shake with relief that Tom hadn't been shot. He felt Tom pull the guy up. "You sure you're okay?" he asked. Jim stood with them.
"You're the one covered in blood," Tom said.
"I was… lucky," Jim admitted as he leaned back and let Tom take the guy. "…you'd be dead by now."
Jim was sitting on the last stair, looking in the direction of the still-unconscious perp. Tom had taken the second guy to the car, giving Jim a moment to cool down, collect himself, breathe deeply, wipe off the sweat, smear the blood on his face, and think.
"Jim?" Karen yelled.
Jim winced as he turned. He was already starting to stiffen up, could feel the bruises and each cut. He groaned. Christie was going to kill him. And going back to the squad looking like this, the lieutenant was going to have a cow. "I'm okay," he yelled up the stairs. "Tom's taking the other guy to the car."
The footsteps echoed in the stairwell. Jim stood up and waited for them to round the last landing. They hadn't seen him yet, but when they did—
"Jim!" Karen gasped.
"What other guy?" Marty said.
Karen's footsteps moved quickly toward him. Jim held his hand up to stop her. "I'm okay. Really."
"Who got shot?" Karen asked.
"No one. Luckily."
He'd been lucky. Jim knew that wasn't always going to be the case. If there was a next time… He'd have to be more careful. Never be alone, never be a liability. He wasn't about to make anyone feel responsible for his death. Not like Terry had felt responsible for him being blinded.
"So what happened? Who is that?"
"I don't know. Hopefully we'll get some answers when we get back."
"You didn't get any information?" Marty asked.
"You were here, Marty. I didn't ask him for his business card." Jim cracked his neck and stretched his muscles, almost reveling the bruises now. He was okay. He'd held his own. And most fights with perps, there wasn't a gun involved.
"You get bored waiting for me or something?" Karen joked. "Let's get you cleaned up before back-up arrives." She put a hand at his elbow lightly.
Jim nodded. "Yeah. Don't want any squeamish rookies seeing this." He put his hand on her arm. "You see my coat?" He turned, like he could look, but he'd been a little disoriented during the fight and wasn't sure where it had ended up. "And my jacket. And my badge… I think that's about all I'm missing."
"How about your brain?" Marty jibed. "You were lucky, you know that?"
"We all were," Jim answered.
"Dunbar," Fisk's deep voice boomed across the empty gravel parking lot.
Jim could hear his footsteps on the gravel, crunching toward him. Fisk didn't usually move that quickly. He was pretty laid-back most of the time, trusting his detectives to hold their own and do their jobs. Jim made one last swipe with the alcohol wipe, then lifted his head and turned.
Karen had taken him outside to the car where she kept a first aid kit. He hadn't even bothered to put his coat and suit jacket back on, just enjoying the cold air on his battered skin. He had blood on his shirt and tie, and a little in his hair from a scratch near his hairline. He'd discarded the tie and opened the top button of his shirt while Karen had rubbed the blood from the top of his head and mumbled something about a huge knot on the back of his skull. Jim had winced when her fingers prodded it, but she'd left him alone to finish cleaning up when he asked her to. She'd sat in the passenger seat, the door open, her feet on the ground, asking him about the fight.
"Lucky," he told her when she asked how he felt. He'd leaned against the top of the car, looking down on her.
She snorted. "Yeah, right. You didn't see the other guy."
"No… I didn't."
Then Fisk showed up. "Well?"
Jim could hear a worried note in his voice. "We're all okay," he said, standing as straight and confident as he could. "We caught two guys, but we don't know what their relation is to our case yet."
Fisk put a hand to Jim's face, turning his head to get a better look. "Criminy," he muttered. "If I get a call from your wife…"
"It's nothing."
There was silence. Jim pictured Fisk looking at him skeptically, but then Fisk laughed. "Only because you can't see it."
Jim gestured toward the building. "The other unit's going through the place from top to bottom. And we contacted poison control about all those chemicals Tom found in the dumpsters."
"Good. Let's get you back in-house, get a doctor to look you over." Fisk patted Jim on the shoulder.
Jim tried to keep his face blank. Another sore spot, but he didn't want them to know. "Boss, once you've been shot, a little thing like this…" He gestured to his face and shook his head.
"Karen?"
"How am I s'posed to know if he's okay?" Karen asked.
Jim grimaced, but found the act tugged on the just-closing wound on his cheek. He reached up to feel a little fresh blood seeping under his fingers. He took another swipe with the alcohol pad. "Really, I'm okay."
"We'll see," Fisk said, then walked off.
"Are you sure?" Karen asked quietly.
"Karen!"
"Don't whine, Jim," Marty said, walking over from their car. "We're headed back."
"So are we," Karen said. She stood up.
Jim took her place in the car. He slammed the door and kept his face forward and unreadable. The first aid kid had been spread all over the dashboard, so he busied himself clearing everything and packing it away.
Karen didn't say anything as she climbed into the driver's seat.