A/N: Well, this one went by fast. I'm not ready for the last chapter, but I wanted to stick to my every other day update schedule... and today is St. Patrick's Day, so here you go. As I said before, not a lot of resolution here, but that's what I was going for. Hope everyone's doing okay. Happy St. Paddy's Day!
Chapter 4: Every Step You Take
. . .
Tomorrow is going to be a bitch. So far the shock hasn't worn off and my body is convinced it's perfectly fine, just a little jittery from being bounced around like a pinball inside five thousand pounds of crumpling steel. I didn't hit my head, which is a plus—the airbag deploying in my face, less so. The EMT who rode with me in the ambulance assured me nothing appeared broken, although he warned of bruising. I haven't looked in a mirror yet, but I'm guessing his inability to meet my eye wasn't a good sign.
Yet another bruise to explain to my children. Wonderful.
The burns on my hands are minor and mostly confined to my thumbs, knuckles, and wrists, where the sodium hydroxide from the inflating airbag settled on exposed skin. According to my trusty EMT, I was lucky that the hot gases didn't melt the cuffs of my coat to my skin. He's a real barrel of laughs, that guy.
My main concern is my swollen wrist. There's no bone jutting out beneath my skin, and I can still rotate it, but I'm gun-shy about that wrist. It's the one I broke with Lewis. (I don't remember how. Was it from being jerked around by my cuffed wrists? Trying to twist free of the restraints? Beating him with the metal bar? It's another piece of that puzzle lost to me forever.) Probably just a sprain, said Chuckles the Emergency Medical Tech. A common injury in motor vehicle collisions. I almost asked him how common it was to be forced into an intersection by a stranger intent on killing you, then getting creamed by another car that took out your left fender and most of the hood, missing your door—and you—by inches. But I held my tongue on that one, and called Amanda instead.
And here she is now, wild-eyed and harried as she leans against the help desk to speak emphatically to a nurse. She looks like a little Hercules trying to move heaven and earth. Spotting me on her own, she bypasses the nurse, silencing the objections with a raised badge, and trots over to the gurney they've got me waiting on.
The first word out of her mouth is, "Fuck," when she whips the gapped privacy curtain aside and yanks it shut behind her. I must really look like hell, but she does a decent job of composing herself by the time she's at my bedside. "What happened?" she asks, surveying the damage as gravely as a medical examiner standing over the slab. Lifting my hand gingerly, she winces at the patches of raw, pink flesh on the back. She's the only person who's ever treated me as if I'm fragile; she's the only person I've ever let get away with it. "Aw, Liv, your poor hands."
"It's okay. I can barely feel it," I say, and that part is true. I know it will change later, but for now, I'm sticking to my old standby—I'm fine. I wrap my hand around hers to prove it, and it's like clutching an ice cube. I swear, she's more stubborn about dressing warmly than our children. "Honey. Where are your gloves?"
"Lord, woman, you were in a car crash and you're worried about me not wearing proper winter attire?" She gives a light, bemused chuckle and shakes her head, but cuts both short to stroke the back of my hair, guiding me in gently to kiss my forehead. "How did this happen?" she asks again, giving me little choice but to tell her. It sounds even more surreal out loud than it did experiencing it firsthand.
"I stopped to pick up some groceries on my way home. Just a few things I knew we needed. There was this kid . . . " I can feel a name on the tip of my tongue as I picture the boy's face, but the harder I try to sound it out, the farther it recedes. That happens sometimes. I've worked so many cases over the years, met so many repeat offenders, I'm bound to forget a few. I hate not being able to remember. It makes me feel old and bad at my job. "Young. Seventeen or eighteen. I know I've seen him before, but I still can't figure out—"
(H. Something with an H. Harry? Henry? Holden? Hayes?)
With a frustrated sigh, I let my head flump back against the upraised gurney and the pillow that rustles like it's made of parchment paper. The careless movement starts my brain to thumping, and there's no doubt about it—I've got a killer migraine on the way. A real skull-buster. My head was pounding so badly I could hardly get out of bed the day after my car accident with Kathy Stabler, and that was long before I got migraines on a regular basis. I shudder to think what this one will bring.
"Anyway. We spoke in passing, and then I kind of forgot about him until I was sitting at the intersection and saw the headlights coming up behind me. God, it all happened so fast." I pinch at the bridge of my nose, feeling the migraine creeping in a little more already, but it hurts to even do that. Maybe I should have said yes to the painkillers they offered when I first got here.
"He rear-ended you?" she prompts, concern etched deeply across her pretty features. That makes this harder.
I've already caused her enough worry as it is this past year, between the PTSD, the night terrors, the not eating, the crying—so, so much crying—the drinking, the issues in bed, the traumas old and new, the phone calls . . . and now: the attempted vehicular homicide. I have no idea how she's put up with all of it for this long; with me. Sometimes I still think I should tell her to run as far away from me as she can. But then I would lose her too.
"Was it an accident," she says like she already knows the answer, "or did he do it on purpose?"
"He— he pushed me into the middle of the intersection. The car that hit me did most of the damage. If the driver hadn't swerved at the last second . . . well, it would've been worse." My throat is so dry, I rasp that last part. Suddenly, I want nothing more than a large glass of water and to be home safely with my family. I'm sick and tired of these hateful, demented men and the games they play. "She's here too. Somewhere. But he—"
(Henry?)
"—he was gone by the time the cops showed up. Witnesses said he just threw the truck in reverse and fled the scene like nothing happened. They've got a partial plate. I should talk to a sketch artist." I toss aside the stiff, dingy white blanket draped over my legs and prepare to stand, but Amanda puts her hands on my shoulders to keep me in place. It's a good thing she does, because the abrupt turn makes me lightheaded. I wouldn't have gotten very far. "Oh," I mutter, blinking hard to dispel the grayout and momentary vertigo. "Maybe I'll do that later."
"Uh yeah, ya think?" Amanda huffs, but her touch is gentle as she pushes me back against the stretcher and fusses at me like an old mother hen. Her hand glides repetitively over my hair, with the reverence of one who deals in the finest silks and satins. I long to be curled up next to her in our own bed, far away from the bustling activity of the ER, the smell of antiseptic, and all these people. These strangers, any one of whom could be him.
(How many hims can I survive? I wonder.)
"Somebody just tried to kill you," she reminds me, tucking the blanket around my lap. I can't figure out why everyone wants to cover me up, until she takes my hand again, and I notice the shaking. "You're not going anywhere till you get checked out, darlin'. You could have internal injuries or a concussion, or somethin'. Where the hell is your doctor?"
"I didn't hit my head," I insist, even as she's poking her head out of the privacy curtain and raising her voice to an embarrassingly loud volume in the close quarters. I can hear the woman in the next cubicle over clearing her throat every five seconds.
"Hey, can we get some help in here?" Amanda snaps her fingers impatiently at someone, ignoring my tugs at her other hand. It's the way Noah and Jesse tug at me when I act uncool in front of their friends, which is pretty much always; fortunately, Matilda still thinks I'm somewhat hip. "My girl— my wife needs looked at. She's in shock. Y'all have no business leaving her alone in the first place. There should be a guard outside this friggin' shower curtain at all times. She's NYPD, for Christ's sake."
I really should correct her—for the wife comment, for causing a scene, for assuming I need a babysitter, for using my job to get me preferential treatment—but as she stands there barking orders like she's at a crime scene, I almost start to laugh. Who needs an armed guard when they've got an Amanda Rollins?
Eventually, I rein her back in, leaning into her chest and listening to her rattle off all the precautions we will take to keep me safe from the mystery boy in the silver truck. I can't argue with any of it, even the police detail, because I've got her and the kids to think about now. If any of them had been in the car with me . . .
"And for the time bein', I'll drive you wherever you need to go," she concludes, kissing the top of my head and rubbing my shoulder in unison. "Work, school, grocery store. You name it."
"I have always wanted my own chauffeur," I murmur drowsily, lulled by the soothing kisses and caresses. I'm much too wired to sleep, my body tensing instinctively each time my neighbor clears her damn throat or a medical cart rolls by; but if I could sleep, it would be like this, with her arms around me. I tilt back against her shoulder and offer up a weak smile. "Sorry I called you away from your game."
"Huh?" Utterly confused, she gazes down at me as if she really does think I have a serious brain injury. "What ga— oh. Don't worry about that. It wasn't a very good game anyway. Daphne wouldn't stop talking the whole time, I could barely hear myself think."
That does sound like Daphne, and Amanda is doing a credible job of sticking to her story, but I'm close enough to detect a faint whiff of cigarette smoke on her coat. Her breath smells strongly of wintergreen, so I'm guessing she partook of the cigarettes, wherever she had actually been. I find that I don't care, at least not about the lying. Whatever she was up to, I was important enough for her to drop it and come running. (She had to have flown like a bat out of hell to get here so fast.) That was more than most people, including my own mother, had ever done. I'll ask her about it later, of course, but for now I just want her near me, even if the odor of tobacco is making my temples pulse, my sinuses burn.
A moment later, she leans me back and maneuvers out of her coat a sleeve at a time, tosses it to the end of the gurney, and settles me against her chest once more, while I, boneless and malleable as a newborn, go right along with all of it. And when the doctor finally arrives a few minutes after that, I don't rush to sit up straighter, nor do I contradict him for saying my wife can stay. He does glance at my ring finger, but it's probably to assess the burns.
The debridement and dressing take about twenty minutes total—I suppose I can tell the kids I'm their "mummy" for a while—and I just barely tolerate the poking and prodding to check for fractures. Holding Amanda's hand gets me through it. The CT scan takes the longest of anything else, and I would have skipped it altogether, if not for her insistence that I be thoroughly examined.
In the end, I escape with a relatively minor set of injuries: superficial second-degree burns that shouldn't cause scarring (part of me wonders, for a split-second, if the doctor's emphasis on that detail is due to all the other noticeable scars on my body), but will likely be painful; a mild sprain of the wrist already weakened by a previous fracture; and contusions, mostly to the cheek and jaw, though I'm warned a seatbelt-shaped bruise may form, slashing across my chest in ugly purples and browns, in the next several hours.
This time I don't object to the painkillers they prescribe, although Amanda gives the sample pack a funny look when a nurse hands over the white paper bag while I'm signing checkout forms. She accepts them for me, the bag rattling against her bouncing leg, and I can't help wondering what is going on in that sharp mind of hers. I haven't overdone it with the wine since that night—we both overdid some things that night, God knows—but I'm not so sure her faith in me is entirely restored. It breaks my heart a little, but I don't blame her. I lost faith in me, too.
Our usual brisk and purposeful strides (it's a cop thing) are slowed down considerably by my unsteadiness as we head for the exit. I feel about eighty years old holding onto Amanda's arm and allowing her to guide me through the corridor. It occurs to me that we are literally treading lightly with each other, a thought I dismiss as quickly as it appears.
"You wanna wait here while I pull the car around?" she asks, indicating a cluster of chairs arranged in uneven rows across from the automatic doors.
"No." I clutch her arm a little too tightly at the thought of being left alone, or sending her off into a dark parking lot on her own. I've got my gun, but I'm not convinced either of us is in any shape to use it at the moment. "I can make it. Let's just go home, love. I want to hug our babies."
"They're safe, darlin'. Lucy knows not to let anyone in, and there's a squad car parked outside the building. Whoever the little prick is, he ain't gettin' anywhere near my babies." She squeezes my waist with the arm she's using to usher me forward. "Any of you."
No sooner have the words left her mouth than a lengthy and heavy tread approaches us from behind. It steals my breath away and freezes me in my tracks, and for a second I feel only blind panic because I'm not reaching for my gun—I can't. Then I hear Officer Tamin requesting that we wait up, and I inhale so sharply I get a wary sideways glance from Amanda. She whirls around and halts Kat in place with an abruptly raised palm. Back the hell up, little girl.
The poor young woman looks embarrassed and a bit chastised by the time I turn to face her, reminding me again that I need to have a sit-down discussion with my two female officers. Namely Amanda, who has a tendency to be extra tough on Kat and extra protective of me. I'll admit it's kind of adorable from a girlfriend perspective, but as a captain I can't encourage it. Much.
"What is it, Kat?" I inquire, gathering Amanda's disgruntled-traffic-cop hand into mine and leading her aside where we won't block the doorway. We'd almost been home free.
"Sorry, boss, I didn't know you'd been discharged—"
"It's fine, Tamin," I say, a little testy myself. Taking a deep breath, I try toning it down a notch or two. It's not Kat's fault that yet another psychopath wants me dead. I'm the fucking pied piper of sociopathy. "Just tell me what you've got."
Kat nods crisply and pulls a notepad from the pocket of her cropped pants. I swear the girl never wears socks. Her ankles must be impervious to the cold. "Reviewed the traffic cam footage and got a full plate on the truck. Registered owner is a . . . " She scans her notes quickly, lips pursed. "Tom Mesner. Fin and I talked to him. Claims his son stole the truck and hasn't been seen—"
"Oh, holy shit." Amanda blanches several shades lighter, turning wide blue eyes on me as if she's seen a ghost, and I'm it.
"What?" I fight the urge to take a defensive step back, with both of them staring at me like that.
"Tom Mesner," Amanda enunciates, though the significance of the name remains lost on me. "Babe, don't you remember? The Mesners. They had that kid who tried to set his little sister on fire. He's the one who shot Amaro. Shit, what was his name? That kid scared the hell out of me. Harry?"
Now I remember, and my blood runs cold. That's why he looked familiar. You might forget a lot of details about a person over the years—name, eye color, family members—but you never forget the face of someone who pointed a gun at yours. Especially when he was a ten-year-old at the time. A disturbed and angry ten-year-old who maintained that it was my fault he'd gotten caught, right up until they walked him into the juvenile detention center where he would serve out his sentence. Had it really been eight years already? Christ.
"Henry," I whisper, more to myself than anyone. "Henry Mesner."
"Yeah, that's him," Kat says, eyeing both Amanda and me with curiosity now. Probably wondering how we could be so spooked by some punk kid. She hasn't met her
(Calvin Arliss)
Henry Mesner yet. I pray to God she never will. "He's been in juvie for the past eight years. Got out a few months ago and dad's been trying to get him back on his feet. I'm guessing it didn't work."
A few months ago is right around the time I started getting the threatening phone calls. Do you want to die tonight, Captain Benson? But he didn't come after me that night. It must have taken him a while to lay out his plans. That suggested patience and discipline, a deadly combination for a boy like Henry. Was he watching me the whole time, like Calvin did? Hiding in the shadows and waiting, always waiting, for the exact moment my guard was down? How did I miss this all over again?
As if she senses my increasing anxiety almost as well as Gigi can, Amanda strokes the back of my coat, reminding me she's there, reminding me to breathe. "What about the mom and sister? Where are they?" she asks Kat.
"Parents separated in 2015, mom's got primary custody of the sister. They moved upstate earlier this year to be 'somewhere safe' when Henry was released." Kat flips the cover of her notepad back into place, addressing me directly. "Mr. Mesner thinks that might be where Henry's headed next. We've got an APB out on him, Cap. He won't get far."
I've heard that one before. A boy—no, a man—like Henry can get a lot farther than anyone would ever expect, whether by his own cunning or just sheer dumb luck. Lewis evaded capture for years by relying on both. And men like him . . . they don't forget when they have a score to settle. I try to remind myself that Henry Mesner is not William Lewis, not even close, but my body doesn't believe it. My hands are suddenly on fire, the pain in my wrist and jaw throbbing to life, keeping tempo with my pounding skull. It's not just the new injuries, though. I feel every last one of my old scars tingling, teeming, as if there has been a great awakening inside me. All those unsettled scores.
"Come on, darlin'," Amanda says softly, and I realize I've missed an entire chunk of the conversation, with Kat offering to escort us to our apartment and taking off at a fast clip across the parking lot. Amanda agreed for me. Her arm slides around my waist again, reassuring me she's still by my side. Always. "Let's go home."
Later, stopped at a red light, Kat's taillights casting strange and restless shadows into our vehicle, Amanda catches me checking the rear and side view mirrors compulsively. Her hand finds mine in the dark below and it hurts when she squeezes, but it's a good pain—the safe kind. It means I'm alive.
"He's long gone, Liv. And if he's got a brain in his fool head, he ain't ever comin' back. In the meantime, you're not leaving my sight. If he wants to get to you, he'll have to go through me."
Sweet, if a bit implausible. Tonight just proves we can't be together every waking minute. And she might not know it, but she just zeroed in on exactly what I'm afraid of: that one day my unsettled scores will be taken out on my family.
I grip her hand tighter in spite of the bandages, in spite of the pain. "He'd really be sorry then," I respond lightly, humoring her. I'm the one he has to go through, should he come anywhere near her or our children.
"Damn straight." We've hit another red light, and she brings my fingertips to her lips, kissing them gently. "Trust me, when it comes to defending my girl, there's nothing I wouldn't do."
For better or worse, I believe her. It's the same thing I would do.
. . .
"I'll be watching you."
- The Police