An animal control officer found him at the hospital and informed Gary that the dog was captured and impounded. The animal didn't have a vaccination history available, so he would be observed for a few weeks. Gary nodded, hoping he wouldn't have to undergo a series of rabies shots. The officer had been mildly interested in Gary's recent history, but before he could ask more than the basic questions, the man was called away. He told Gary he would follow up with him later to complete the report.

Thankful for small favors, Gary rested on the gurney. The staff at the hospital ER was too busy to bother asking any questions other than medical ones. Gary wasn't even sure if they had recognized him. Maybe life would get back to normal soon.

Two hours later, his arm bandaged and a prescription for antibiotics and painkillers in hand, Gary drove back towards McGinty's. He was lucky that his jacket had protected his arm somewhat. He had sustained a couple of deep gashes that had taken ten stitches each to close and two deep puncture wounds. An x-ray had not revealed any broken bones, but pressure from the dog's jaws had caused considerable bruising and swelling. He winced as he exited the van, noting that his upper left arm was already getting stiff from the tetanous shot. The bites were still numb from the lidocaine the doctor injected before he stitched the cuts closed.

A photographer jumped out from behind the dumpster in the rear of the building, surprising Gary as he walked towards the back door of McGinty's. His heart hammering, Gary staggered backwards as the flashes went off in his face. "Shit! What the hell…?" He blinked a few times, trying to clear the spots in his vision. "This is my property, you can't be back here!"

"Hey, Hobson! What happened to your arm?" the photographer yelled the question as he backed away from Gary, still snapping pictures.

Ignoring him, Gary entered McGinty's, swearing under his breath. He was glad Marissa was nowhere around when he ducked through the kitchen up to his loft. He changed out of the bloodied flannel shirt he had been wearing and pulled a soft, navy blue turtleneck over his head. He stuck his fingers in the tears decorating the coat's sleeve. Frowning, he then tossed the ruined jacket into a corner. The sofa beckoned but Gary turned towards the door instead. He had a stack of bills awaiting his signature piled on his desk in the office. Oh joy.


Armstrong hobbled out of the cab, hating the awkwardness of having to use crutches. He was glad it was only for a few more days. Ignoring the flashes of several cameras, he tucked a crutch tightly under his arm and pulled the front door of McGinty's open. Pausing to let his eyes adjust to the relative dimness inside, he looked around, glad that the bar was looking back to normal. He had really hated being part of the crew that had gone through the place with a fine-toothed comb. Worse, he had felt terrible having to question Ms. Clark. For some reason whenever he was around her, he felt as though she could see into his soul and found him lacking.

He suppressed a groan when he saw the subject of his thoughts heading his way. The grim set of her mouth alerted him that someone had informed her of his presence already. Her white cane swept rapidly from side to side. It almost appeared as though she was hoping he would be within the arc of the cane.

"Good afternoon, Detective."

"Ms. Clark." Armstrong swallowed hard. He felt like an errant schoolboy in her presence.

"Is there something I can help you with?"

"Uh, sort of. I want to speak with Hobson. Is he here?"

"Why? Is there some other unsolved murder you want to pin on him?" Marissa's voice was colder than icicles in January.

"No, ma'am. I would just like to speak with him if he's available," Armstrong said, not blaming her for the cool reception.

Sighing, Marissa shook her head. "He's in the office. You should know your way back there by now, though you might not recognize it when papers aren't strewn all over the place."

"Um, right. Have a good day, Ms. Clark."

"Hmph."

Hobbling his way towards the back of the bar and through the doors to the kitchen, he turned left to go to the office.

He paused at the door. It was partially open and he could see Hobson sitting at his desk apparently doing some paperwork. The normalcy of the scene seemed almost out of character in relation to Hobson.

Rapping one knuckle against the door, Armstrong cleared his throat. "Excuse me?"

Hobson looked up, his expression neutral. "Hey, Armstrong." He leaned back in the chair, tossing his pen onto a pile of papers and motioned for the detective to enter. "Have a seat. How's the leg?"

"Good. I'll be ditching these crutches in a day or so." Armstrong looked down at his leg, realizing, not for the first time, how lucky he was to escape with such a relatively minor injury. It could have been so much worse. Nothing had been broken, no major blood vessels had been compromised and all in all, he would be left with nothing more than a scar he could tell his grandchildren about someday. He sat in the chair across from the desk, propping his crutches against his good leg.

"That's good," Hobson said, his voice pleasant, as though he were making small talk with a stranger.

"I just wanted to come by and thank you. I still can't believe that my partner was behind the whole thing and I didn't see it." Armstrong shook his head. "I don't know what would have happened if you hadn't shown up when you did."

Hobson's jaw clenched and he glanced away as though remembering something. He turned back and met Armstrong's gaze, his voice quiet but firm. "You would have been killed."

"What?" Armstrong sat forward, grabbing the crutches when they threatened to topple onto the desk.

Hobson studied Armstrong for several seconds before answering. His face had an expression that Armstrong had never seen on it before. The guy was normally a warm, affable, sometimes flustered man, but now he looked different. Harder. The friendliness that Armstrong was accustomed to seeing was gone.

"If I hadn't been there, you would have died. Brigatti too."

"How do you know?" Armstrong asked, shaken by the conviction in Hobson's expression.

A ghost of a smile flickered across the other man's face and he shook his head slightly. "Do you really want to go into all that again?"

"Dammit, Hobson! Why don't you just tell me the truth?" Armstrong was angry now, all thoughts of gratitude gone for the moment. He was tired of dealing with the mystery that was Hobson. The vague replies, the evasiveness and most of all, not knowing the source of the guy's information. Pointing a finger at Hobson, he bit out, "Did you have something to do with the Scanlon murder after all?"

Hobson jumped up from the desk and leaned forward, his eyes like granite. "Do you really believe that? 'Cause if you do, then I'm never gonna be able to change your mind. Ya see, I don't know what I need to do to prove to you that I'm…I'm not a bad guy! What more do I have to do for you? Die?"

Armstrong stood too, leaning on the desk for support, his crutches clattering to the floor. "But that wouldn't happen, would it, Hobson? You're too smart for that. You get off on the attention, don't you? I bet you love having all these photographers hanging around." He moved his head forward, his nose inches from the angry bar owner's. "Is that your motive, huh? Fame? Money?"

He knew he hit a nerve when he saw Hobson's fists clench.

"You have no idea what you're talking about," Hobson replied, his voice low and harsh. "The last thing I want is to have my personal life splashed all over the news."

The detective saw the anger and frustration written all over Hobson's face and tried to push the advantage. He could feel that the man was about to crack.

Hobson began to turn away but Armstrong was not about to let the guy escape when he was so close to finding answers. He reached out and grabbed Hobson by the arm to stop him. "Answer me!" Armstrong felt a stiff padding under Hobson's sleeve and was startled when the man let out an agonized groan and sank to one knee.

Immediately, Armstrong released him. "What the hell?"


His arm throbbed as the pain flared to a thunderous crescendo. Gary vaguely heard the detective's curse, but was too busy trying to keep the contents of his stomach in place to reply. He felt one knee buckle and tried to stumble back into his office chair. "Shit! Mmmm, damn." He panted, his eyes closed, seeing and feeling only white hot pain behind his closed lids. He felt his chair roll up to the back of his legs, and a hand on his shoulder easing him down. The hand continued to push his shoulder down.

"Keep your head down, Hobson. If you pass out on me, I'll never be able to catch you and you'll do a header onto the wood floor. I do not have time to file paper work on that too."

Gary almost laughed and would have if he had felt it was safe to open his mouth yet. Gradually, the pain eased and he cracked his eyes open. He focused on Armstrong's shiny black shoes, the rubber tip of one crutch an inch or so away from the detective's heel. Drawing a deep breath, Gary slowly sat up. He looked down at his left arm, half-expecting to see a bloody stump and was relieved to see his hand still sticking out of his sleeve. Now that the pain was receding, Gary gingerly eased his sleeve up, exposing the bandage. A few spots of bright red blood decorated the pristine white gauze but otherwise, it looked okay.

"Sorry, man. I didn't know you got hurt the other day. Nobody told me." Armstrong said, all the earlier anger gone from his voice.

Gary glanced up, his expression sheepish. "I didn't. This happened today."

Armstrong gave him a quizzical look while hobbling back to his chair on the other side of the desk. He sat down with a sigh and used his good leg to pull his crutches back within reach. "So, what was it this time?"

"It doesn't matter Armstrong. I'd really rather just forget about it, if you don't mind. I won't give the explanation you want and we'll just end up re-playing this scene. " Gary ran a hand through his hair then brought it down to pinch the bridge of his nose. "Look, I don't think I can deal with that right now."

He felt like crap and tried to suppress a shudder as a chill come over his body. A Vicodin and a warm bed would work wonders. "Uh, so if you're done…uh, done saying whatever it is you wanted to say to me then I hope you don't mind if I excuse myself." Gary stood, trying to hide how shaky he felt.

Armstrong grabbed his crutches. "Someday, I'll find out the truth, Hobson." The detective started to leave, but paused. "I really am sorry though. I didn't intend to hurt you. I only came here to say thanks." Armstrong smiled ruefully and said, " My wife would shoot me if she knew how badly I screwed this up."

Gary laughed. "Well, I won't tell her." Gary walked with Armstrong out towards the bar area. "At least, not yet."

Armstrong grinned. "That could be construed as blackmail, Hobson." He stopped in the entranceway.

"Yeah, well ya never know when information like that could come in handy."

"You're cruel. You know my wife has soft spot for you. In fact, I was supposed to invite you over for dinner after I got done thanking you."

Gary reached around Armstrong and opened the door for him, grimacing as a couple of photographers raised their cameras. "I…I'm not sure that would be a good idea right now, but tell her thank you for me, would ya?"

Armstrong nodded. "Sure." He maneuvered one crutch tightly under his arm so he could extend his hand. "Thanks again, Hobson."

Gary looked him in the eye, feeling like they had come to some sort of truce. He clasped the detective's hand. "You're welcome, Armstrong."