Lorelai
Jax sputtered awake suddenly when he felt something being poured over his face. Springing from bed and shaking his head from side to side like a dog, he was immediately on alert and edge, not knowing what or, more importantly, who to expect… only for his eyes to land upon the slightly wheezing mountain that was his dead best friend's father. Lifting a hand to his face, Jax wiped the still trailing liquid away, not believing what he saw. But even clear eyed - stinging but clear - once more, it was still Piney standing before him.
Licking his lips, Jax tasted the unmistakable bite of tequila. "Jesus christ, Old Man! Ever heard of water?"
Piney shrugged, took a deep swallow of what booze remained in the bottle, and nonchalantly replied, "didn't have any."
"It's called a tap." When Piney just stared at him blandly, uncaring and still drinking, Jax launched a new attack. "And what the hell are you doing in my house? Did you break in?"
Defensively, the old man denied, "I used my key."
"What key? I never gave you a key."
"The key I had made."
Jax shook his head in exasperation, willing patience. It had been weeks since the night at Tara's and the morning that followed, and Jax was just as lost, just as confused, and just as alienated as he had feared he would be without her… or even the idea of her… in his life. The last thing he wanted to deal with was Piney's attitude and bullshit. It wasn't exactly early, because Piney didn't do anything before 10:00 AM, and Jax wasn't sleeping well either, but he was trying to shut himself away from the world and hide as much as possible. That wouldn't be possible if every asshole in Charming had access to his house. "You made a key… to my house?"
"Yeah," Piney answered as if it was obvious, as if he had every right to free entry into Jax's home. "One day, I saw your keys. So, I took them, and I made copies, and then I put them back and you were never the wiser." Piney paused in his explanation long enough to drain the last dregs of liquor from his bottle, tossing it aside and onto the floor once he was absolutely sure it was empty. "I figured this would be easier than busting in a window if I ever needed inside of your place - you know, avoid your bitching and moaning about boundaries and all that bullshit."
Deciding it would be easier to just move on to whatever it was that inspired the older man to darken his door that day, Jax dropped the matter of Piney having a key to his house, knowing he'd be able to swipe it from him at a later date. However, he couldn't resist getting in one last dig at Piney's expense. Hooking a thumb over his naked shoulder, Jax motioned towards his bed. "Sure you don't want to lick the sheets for any last drops?"
"Not when I know where that dick's been."
At the reminder that he was standing completely nude before one of the Original Nine, Jax opened his top dresser drawer, removing a clean pair of boxers. He also swiped up the jeans he had been wearing the day before and a dirty t-shirt off of his floor, throwing them on as well. Although Piney was quiet while Jax dressed, giving him a few minutes to gather his thoughts, the old man also didn't leave the room, simply standing there and waiting for Jax to cover himself.
Instead of trying to figure out what Piney might be doing there and what he wanted, Jax's mind was locked on the fact that, despite his previous proclivities when it came to sex, his dick had not been anywhere but his own hand since sleeping with Tara. It amazed Jax to remember that, even on the night of Donna's death and in the face of his best friend's immense grief, Jax had been confident that relationships weren't for him, that the way to enjoy life was through a lot of anonymous, meaningless sex. But now? He missed Tara… which was ridiculous, because their interactions consisted of months of stalking her, a one night stand, and then covering up a murder. And he was worried about her, too, though his concern wasn't about his own fate. Jax didn't think she would turn him in for executing the sick fuck who had tried to rape her, Fed or not, but he was anxious about how she was handling her attack and about any responsibility or even guilt she might be feeling about Jax killing the ATF agent. He was haunted by her.
And he was also tormented about how he could possibly move forward with the club. Pulling Jax out of his musings, Piney taunted, "if your modesty has been sufficiently restored, do you mind telling me what, if anything, you've been doing to right the club's wrongs?"
"It's not that simple, Piney."
"Of course it is," the old man argued. "Running guns isn't good for SAMCRO, and it's not what the club is supposed to be about."
"Knowing something's wrong and doing something about it are two very different things," Jax protested. "I have no idea how to fix or change SAMCRO when its problems are running it."
With a narrowed gaze, Piney challenged, "did you even read John's book?"
Clenching his jaw in barely restrained frustration, Jax shouldered past Piney, making his way out to his living room. In and of itself, his dad's manuscript wasn't dangerous, but, combined with Jax's own dissatisfaction and the recent hardships faced by the club, his instincts told him that he and his father's words would be safer if certain people did not find out about them… at least, not yet. So, Jax kept the book hidden when he wasn't reading it, constantly changing its location, too. On this particular morning, he had it shoved underneath the leather cushions of his couch, the thick padding disguising the stowaway binder.
With the retrieved manuscript in hand, he stomped back to his bedroom where Piney was waiting for him. Dropping the much read and annotated manifesto onto his bed, Jax finally answered the old man's question. "I have read this thing so many times, I practically have it memorized, but it's not exactly a how-to guide, Piney. It's more the rambling thoughts of a dead man than it is answers."
"I see you decorated it with bitch notes."
He probably didn't want to know the answer to his inquiry, but Jax couldn't help but ask, "bitch notes?"
"Women use them," Piney defended, crossing his arms over his chest and glowering, though Jax wasn't sure if the scowl was meant for him or for the fairer sex in general. "'When I said take out the trash, I meant you, asshole.' 'We're three months behind on the mortgage. If you can't come home with the money, don't bother coming home at all.' 'Even apes can write their own names. Sign the fucking divorce papers, Piermont!'"
Unsure if he should be amused or horrified by his best friend's father, Jax decided to leave everything Piney had just said alone. So, redirecting them back to the actual matter at hand, he demanded, "if you think this is so easy, why don't you tell me what I should be doing?"
"If you want SAMCRO out of guns, then you better come up with some alternative ways to earn."
"It's a club, Piney, not a fucking charity. Everyone can find their own source of income. Or not. It shouldn't be SAMCRO's burden."
"Says the kid who inherited his livelihood."
Unwilling to accept the criticism being leveled against him, Jax countered Piney's attack. "Tell me: what exactly have you accomplished during all these months, Old Man, because Clay's still sitting at the head of the table, that President patch on his kutte mocking everything my dad stood for and spitting on everyone he's taken from us."
Obviously feeling thwarted, Piney admitted, "there's someone who can help us, but I haven't been able to reach them."
"Okay, fine. Neither of us have accomplished shit. So, let's switch tasks." When Piney didn't protest, Jax continued, "you focus on the club, and I'll follow up on some leads Hale gave me."
Snorting in disbelief, Piney expressed his doubt. "Deputy Dogooder gave you some leads about Donna's case?"
"He mentioned citing precedence as proof. If I can…"
"Wait just a goddamn minute, Jackson," the old man bellowed, cutting him off. "If that prick with a badge hinted to you that Clay also went after my kid and you're just now telling me about…."
"Ah, man. Shit, Piney. No," Jax was quick to reassure his dead best friend's father. Or maybe it was discouragement. After all, what was worse: knowing that your son committed suicide after his wife was murdered at the hands of his own club or confronting the idea of your club's president having ordered a hit on not just your daughter-in-law but also your only child but not being able to do a damn thing about it? "Hale was talking about my dad. After some of the things you said that day when you went after the Niners, I thought you already suspected Clay's involvement in JT's death. Clay's actions might have driven Opie to kill himself, but Ope pulled that trigger; he ate his own gun."
After a moment to accept what he already knew, Piney ventured, "look, I'm barely hanging onto my kutte as it is. I don't know about me trying to…."
"No one's willing to listen to me right now," Jax interrupted him. "I've been too vocal in my opposition to Clay and too wrapped up in my own shit. I've barely been around, and I know my mom's not the only one who resents my absence. Just… talk to some of the other guys," he suggested, implored. "I think some of them would be receptive to change if it came from anyone but me right now. I'd try Bobby and Chibs first."
For the first time since Piney had barged into his bedroom that morning, Jax saw a spark of if not enthusiasm then at least motivation catch fire in the old man's gaze. It - along with what, for Piney, was too easy of a capitulation - made Jax curious about just what the hell the old timer was up to, what angle he was working unbeknownst to Jax. But he let his curiosity go, because Piney was actually agreeing to Jax's idea, and he really didn't want to fight with him anymore. Rubbing his chin in obvious consideration, Piney asked rhetorically, "Chibs, huh?" Already turning his back on Jax and walking slowly away, Piney mumbled more to himself than to the room, "yeah, I guess I could do that."
Moments later, his front door slammed shut, and Jax lifted his hands to his face to scrub wearily against his stumbled jaw and cheeks. He hadn't been awake for even half an hour yet, but he was already exhausted. Flopping bonelessly down upon his bed, Jax only laid there a few seconds before he felt the pooled tequila start to soak through the thin material of his shirt, immediately launching him back onto his feet and towards the bathroom. "Son of a bitch," he swore, already stripping off his clothes for a shower.
Pissed off, wide awake, and itching to start looking into his dad's death - up first, a trip to the site of his accident, for Jax, there was no going back to sleep now.
/
Tara couldn't sleep.
She should have been exhausted. She should have been dead on her feet and nearly comatose with fatigue. And she was. Even if Tara wasn't coming to the end of a hectic and strenuous overnight on-call shift after her normal twelve hour workday of early morning rounds, surgery, clinicals, and then more rounds, she hadn't been sleeping well. For three weeks, her mattress had felt like a trust exercise - straining, shaking arms holding her up over a gaping, bottomless chasm. Night after night, she laid there not wondering if but waiting for when the weary arms would slip, and she would fall, fall, fall. And that was after months of fear, of looking over her shoulder, of knowing that she wasn't safe. Tara had simply traded one living nightmare for another.
Not bothering to roll over or adjust her blankets in a futile bid to trick her body into feeling secure enough to sleep, Tara just laid there, staring at the unoccupied bunk above her. Alone, the on-call room otherwise empty, its blackout blinds preventing the pastel light of a spring dawn from marking the time of a rapidly approaching morning, she found herself wondering if she would always be like this. Running. Alone. Scared. In her nearly thirty years of life, Tara had only lived in three places - Concord, Seattle for Undergrad at the University of Washington, and then Chicago for medical school at Northwestern, but it still felt like she was always trying to escape… something: her background, her mother's addiction, her self-doubt, her anger, her mistakes, her guilt, her sadness.
And now? Tara wasn't sure what frightened her more: the prospect of remaining silent for the rest of her life or the reason why she was willing to bear that burden.
On the slight breeze of an opened door, gentle footsteps approached the side of the bed on which she laid wide awake. For a brief moment, the unnatural, artificial light of the hospital hallway had bled into the darkness of the on-call room, creating a narrow and temporary prism of spatial awareness. Without turning to acknowledge the presence beside her, Tara felt someone bend down close to her head. "Dr. Knowles," her name was gently whispered in an unnecessary attempt to rouse. Although Tara didn't react, she was already mentally sorting through why she was being summoned. It wasn't medical, because there had been no page, and it couldn't be personal, because that would require Tara to have a personal life, which she didn't. So, that only left one option. With a sympathetic, tentative touch to the shoulder, the nurse informed her, "the police are here, asking to see you?"
Tara sat up so abruptly, so quickly, that she made the startled, middle aged woman stumble backwards slightly. In apology, she offered the nurse a wince of regret, but then she recalled the room's utter lack of light, and the brittle gesture crumbled off of her pale face. Swinging her legs out and to the side, she sat up, leaning forward so that her upper body hung over her lap and emerged out from under the top bunk. Hands gripping the thin edge of the mattress beneath her, Tara asked, "the police? Did they say what they wanted?"
She knew. She knew why they were there, why they were asking for her, and she knew that she was going to have to make a choice - something that she had been contemplating for weeks but that still felt rushed and sudden - that would not only shape her future but also once and for all reveal her true character - yet another thing Tara had been running from for all these years. But she was also aware of the fact that, to not express what hopefully came across as bewildered questions, to not show confusion and a fear of the unknown, would speak more to her guilt than the shocking, unexpected appearance of law enforcement.
"They just asked if you were here, said they'd been by your house, but no one was home." Tara stood slowly but with a perfectly straight spine, her shoulders rolled back and projecting a confidence she didn't feel. Had never felt. "Maybe this is about that big pile-up on the bridge last month," the nurse suggested, having no idea just how grateful Tara was to her at that moment. The older woman had unwittingly given Tara a narrative to latch on to, a distraction she could employ. "Weren't you first on scene? I remember reading that the whole thing was caused by a man who had been drinking."
Feigning relieved nonchalance, Tara responded, "I was. And he hadn't just been drinking; he was passed out drunk when I assessed him while triaging. I can't believe that was just a month ago. It feels like..." Although Tara allowed her sentence to trail off, mentally she finished it. It felt like the world had stopped spinning since that accident only to start up again in the opposite direction while Tara was still trying to move forward as though nothing had changed.
Breaking through Tara's preoccupation, the nurse chuckled, somehow corralling her towards the door and the awaiting police officers without ever touching her. "If I had a dollar for every surgical resident I've heard express that very same thing over the years, well, let's just say that I'd no longer need to collect that buck."
As soon as they stepped through the doorway, the older woman needlessly gestured to the right where Tara could see two uniforms standing awkwardly in the dead end hallway before parting and turning to the left so as to head back to the surgical floor's nursing station. Tara considered and then quickly discarded the idea of pasting a smile onto her face. She knew that she wouldn't be able to make it look genuine, and neither the true reason behind their visit nor the presumed one she was about to fake were smiling matters. Instead, she walked quickly in their direction, all business. Holding out a hand for them to shake - from one professional to two others, Tara introduced herself. "Officers, I'm Dr. Tara Knowles. How can I help you today?"
Although they shook her hand, she could tell that her forthright and confident, cordial yet abrupt manner had caught them off guard. They were obviously only used to dealing with two emotions: fury or fright, neither of which Tara was willing to offer them. While they shared a glance that could only be interpreted as the shortspeak that existed between partners - two people who had worked together for long enough that words weren't necessary, Tara took the opportunity to steer their upcoming conversation in the direction she wanted it to go. "I take it this is about the San Francisco-Oakland Bay Bridge wreck from last month." She didn't pose it as a question; she put it out there as fact. Because what else in the world could two San Francisco police officers possibly want with a third year surgical resident?
"Do you need to go over my statement with me again? No one who was injured has taken a turn for the worse, right?" Lacing her words with the conviction in her skills that came as naturally to Tara as breathing, she wasn't putting them on when she said, "other than the lives lost before I could get to them, I was convinced that everyone I treated that morning would make it - even that poor man with the tension pneumothorax that I had to decompress with a needle right there on the road."
"Wait," one of the cops told her, looking over once more at his partner. But this time Tara could read their expressions. Neither of them had connected her to the woman, to the doctor, from all of the sensationalized headlines about the much covered pile-up. She could see the realization already working to her favor, making them doubt that she had anything to do with why they were really there… which was exactly what she had hoped to accomplish. "That was you?!"
But she wasn't done yet. Ignoring the question, because it really didn't need to be answered - after all, Tara wasn't making any of this up; everything she was telling them could be verified through their own department, not to mention the press, she next launched into self-righteous indignation. Not only did she want them to see her as a talented, compassionate doctor, but it wouldn't hurt if she also came across as someone who was on their side - a rule follower, a law abider always and no matter what. "Do not tell me that the man who caused all of that destruction, who murdered multiple people that day, who irrevocably changed the lives of dozens of others is denying that he was drunk or claiming that his rights were violated in any way? Because I will testify in court that he was…"
Just as she was really finding the rhythm of her animus, one of the officers shifted uncomfortably, and the other one coughed before interrupting, "uh, actually, we're not here about… that."
Tara still had one more card to play. "It isn't one of my patients, is it, because I wasn't aware that any of my cases were tied to investigations?"
This time, however, the cops seemed to be tired of her game of distraction, so they ignored her query and cut to the chase. "We're here to discuss Agent Joshua Kohn with you, Doctor Knowles."
Instinctively, Tara lifted her arms to cross them in front of her chest and hold onto herself. She felt herself take a step back, felt the color drain out of her face, and knew that her countenance had gone from obsequious to guarded and apprehensive. This time, however, there was nothing feigned about her reaction. Although Tara had known this is where they would end up, his name still made her tense, still caused a chill to ripple through her body. Luckily, her response could be explained away without knowledge of her role in the Fed's (hopefully still undiscovered) death. "What about him," she asked rhetorically, eyes skittering back and forth between the two officers. "Kohn's in Chicago, and I have a restraining order."
"Your RO is only good for 100 yards, not the entire state of California, and Agent Kohn recently transferred to the San Jose Field Office." The uniform who spoke - name tag read Boswick - was older than his partner, perhaps the trainer to the younger cop's trainee.
Snappishly, Tara railed against them. "And no one thought I should be informed of this?"
A note of defensiveness entered Boswick's voice. "We're telling you now."
"I highly doubt you tracked me down at work just to tell me that the man stalking me has been in town for god knows how long and no one has seen fit to say anything until now!"
"You're right," the one who Tara presumed to be a rookie admitted. His name tag proclaimed him to be Officer Theile. The two men exchanged another loaded glance before Junior continued, "There's more to our visit than just giving you a head's up."
With her left arm still wrapped around her torso, Tara lifted her right fist to her face, biting the cuticle of her thumb anxiously. "He's after me again, isn't he?" When they didn't confirm or deny her charge, she elaborated, "he transferred here for me. I know he did. And now, what, has he been hanging around the hospital? Asking around about me? Lying to my coworkers, telling them that…."
Cutting her off, Boswick said, "he's not after you, Doctor Knowles." He sounded impatient more than concerned, which she didn't think boded well for her. "He's missing."
Pretending confusion, she parrotted, "missing?"
"He never reported to work after moving out here, and what was left of his rental car was found under the freeway in the Acorn-Industrial part of Oakland."
Tara shrugged. "All that tells me is that he's even more dangerous, because his obsession has taken control. He's no longer even functioning in his everyday life. He's gone underground." It took all of Tara's reserve and aloofness not to snort at just how underground Kohn was. "With that said, though," she acknowledged, "I haven't seen him." Silently to herself, she tacked on since the night he tried to rape me.
"Your neighbor - a May Watkins," Boswick pulled out a pocket notebook and referred to one of its pages, "reported seeing Agent Kohn hanging around your place approximately a month ago. He told her he was your boyfriend, and she invited him in for some lemonade. Cell tower records confirm Agent Kohn's presence in Concord at that time."
"So, let me get this straight," Tara prefaced her accusation. "Not only did Kohn transfer to the San Francisco area, but my neighbor called the cops on him lurking outside my home a month ago, and you're just now getting around to telling me about this?"
The rookie shuffled his feet, refused to meet her eye. "Mrs. Watkins didn't report Agent Kohn. She told us about him when questioned yesterday."
Voice brittle with a potent combination of anger, trepidation, and weariness, Tara demanded to know, "why exactly are you here?"
It was Boswick who answered, laying down the facts as he saw them in plain, simple terms. "Before starting his new job, Agent Kohn was given two weeks leave to make arrangements for his relocation. During that time, Agent Kohn's cell phone records placed him near your home several times. Your neighbor not only provided a visual confirmation, but she also spoke with him. Two weeks ago, Agent Kohn never showed up for his first day of work. At that time, he was reported missing. Before apparently driving into Acorn Industrial, the last tower pinged by Agent Kohn's cell phone was the one nearest to your place of residence, Doctor Knowles."
Through gritted teeth, she questioned rhetorically, "don't you think I would have reported him in violation of his restraining order had I known that he was staking out my home?"
"Alright, you didn't notice him." At the choice of phrasing by Officer Theile, Tara flinched as if slapped. Noticed. Like she was in the wrong for not realizing that a federal agent was following her. Again. "But what about your boyfriend?"
"My boyfriend?" The query was instinctual, automatic, because it caught Tara off guard. "I don't have a boyfriend."
This time, it was Boswick's turn to fold his arms over his chest, but his movements were made in confrontation, not self-comfort. "Really. Because Mrs. Watkins also told us about the biker who apparently spent the night a few weeks back - the same night that Agent Kohn's phone last put him outside of your house."
Well, didn't Tara have an observant neighbor. Luckily, the old bat's ears didn't seem as sharp as her eyes, because, otherwise, she also would have reported a hell of a lot more than a sleepover occurring on the night in question. Dismissively, she waved off their evidence. "Sex does not a boyfriend make."
"Look, Doctor Knowles, if you could just tell us…."
Cutting off the younger cop, she said, "no, you look. It was a one night stand. I haven't seen the guy since, and I obviously never told him about my creepy stalker who I thought, until this morning, was still in Chicago."
Boswick simply demanded, "a name, Doctor Knowles."
And here it was: Tara's decision. She could either protect Jax, continue to skate around the truth but not outright lie by really playing up the semantics of her word choices, or she could wash her hands of the entire mess and be done with it, Kohn, Jax, and the club once and for all. All she had to do was give Boswick and Theile Jax's name, and Tara knew she'd be in the clear. By referring to him as a biker, they'd already made it clear that, while they might not like or respect her, they were suspicious of Jax, not Tara. It'd be so simple, so neat and clean. But Tara was never going to go that route.
If she had wanted to lay Kohn's murder at Jax's feet, she would have done so weeks ago. All of the time since, all of the sleep she had lost in debate with herself, Tara wasn't contemplating what she should do in regards to Jax's guilt; she had been mulling her own… or, more accurately, her lack thereof. Because, despite the fact that Jax had executed a man on Tara's behalf, she wasn't sorry that Kohn was dead. And that is what kept her up at night: her lack of remorse and the fact that, if she felt anything towards Jax's actions, it was gratitude, not abhorrence.
As this realization surged through her mind and body, Tara felt herself relax, her limbs and posture becoming loose… and genuinely so, too. Looking the two uniforms in the eye, she calmly stated, "we didn't exactly exchange names before things got physical." Jax might have known a little too much about her prior to their sleeping together, but Tara didn't learn even his name until their sweat had cooled and she woke up from her la petite mort.
She watched as judgment quickly swept over both men's faces, and she bristled with indignation. If Officer Theile walked into the locker room one morning at work, bragging about his one night stand, he'd be lauded as a casanova - backslaps, fistbumps, and high fives all around. But Tara? Oh, no! Tara was a woman which meant, despite the fact that she was young, and smart, and successful, and attractive, she was supposed to wait until the letterman's jacket was around her shoulders before putting out. By her admission that she'd engaged in nameless sex with a man - a biker, no less, the two cops, ignoring the facts that she was well educated and professionally respected, had already judged Tara and found her wanting. Well, so be it. If that's how they wanted this to play out, Tara was done pretending to be someone else; she was finished with her act.
"What, did you meet him on one of those sex apps," Boswick awkwardly wanted to know. Tara would bet the total amount of her substantial student loans that Theile, on the other hand, knew exactly what those apps were called.
"As a matter of fact, no," she responded smugly. Again, leaning into the truth… and, this time, relishing what she was about to reveal, Tara shared, "I met him on the bridge during the pile-up. He was the only other person who cared enough to help." Even Jax had claimed that he'd investigated the accident that day in an effort to make sure that she was safe, but as soon as he saw what she was doing, he could have gone back to his own vehicle, and he certainly didn't have to help her take care of the victims. Or risk exposure. But he did both.
And what that told Tara was, despite her accusations against him after he killed Kohn, she did trust him not to hurt her and, more importantly, she was starting to wonder if perhaps his professed feelings were genuine, too. A small part of Tara worried that she was projecting, trying to justify her own wild and out of character actions in regards to sleeping with him. At the point when they had sex, all Tara had known about Jax was that he'd shot a man in the head for her. That's it. Nothing else. Even after she learned more, she couldn't exactly regret the sex. It had been good. Really good… despite the situation. Or, hell, maybe because of it. And it had been a while for Tara.
Mentally shaking off her thoughts - she'd have plenty of time for them later after the cops were gone, Tara returned to her previous explanation. "That's all I knew about him, but he knew enough about me to track me down. He did. We had sex. End of story."
"Do you think he might track you down again," Boswick wanted to know.
"If he did, I wouldn't turn him away." Tara infused enough innuendo into her words to make it clear that, even if they weren't, she was talking about sex. "And before you ask, if we were to… meet up again, I'd make sure to let him know that, just because he wears leather and drives a motorcycle, you're interested in talking to him about a missing persons case for a man he doesn't know, has never met, and has never even heard of." Before either uniform could censure her for her snark, Tara wondered out loud, "should I also warn my mailman? What about the people who read my utility meters? The guys who collect my trash? You know, I think there are a few people who walk their dogs in the alley behind my house. I'll fill them in, too. Anyone else?"
"You've made your point, Doctor Knowles," Boswick told her, sounding none too pleased about the fact. "But before we go, I'm curious." Instead of verbally responding, Tara merely quirked her eyebrows, prompting the older cop to continue. He did. "What do you think happened to Agent Kohn?"
"Well, according to you, he was outside of my home while I was having sex with another man. My guess? That sick freak had his eyes on us the whole time." In fact, Tara knew for sure that Kohn's eyes had been trained on her and Jax while they fucked… only they had been lifeless. "Then, also according to you, he went straight to Acorn Industrial. There are only two things someone goes to Acorn Industrial for: drugs or sex. As a guy who felt entitled to whatever or whoever he wanted, Kohn wouldn't be above requesting the blue discount. I highly doubt that would go over well in that neighborhood. What do you think?"
"I think that scenario works out well for you," Theile spoke for the first time in a while.
Mocking him, Tara bit out, "yeah, because who wouldn't want to know that they inadvertantly had voyeuristic sex?"
The rookie continued to press her. "But no regrets about a man potentially being dead?"
"You say man; I say monster. And I'm not in the habit of mourning perverts who terrorize women."
After exchanging a quelling glance with his younger partner, Boswick held out a card for Tara to take. Moments later, Theile mimicked his training officer. "If you should think of anything else - in particular the name of your… friend - or if you would hear from Agent Kohn, please get in touch with one or both of us."
"And I'd appreciate being kept apprised of any developments as well, particularly those in regards to my own safety and security." Wanting to get in one last dig, she added a pointed, "this time," to the end of her request.
While neither police officer acknowledged her appeal, they didn't deny it either. With matching, synchronized nods, they left, parting around her like she was a median. Although Tara didn't turn around to watch their retreat, she listened until their footsteps had faded and then waited several more moments before looking down at the business cards she now held in her hands. Briefly, she considered tossing them out of spite, but neither Boswick nor Theile would ever know let alone be offended by such an empty gesture. Plus, knowledge was power. If Tara wanted to remain in control of the Kohn situation, then she would need all of the power she could get.
Flicking the cardstock back and forth between her right index and middle fingers, Tara pivoted on the toes of her tennis shoes and headed back towards the on-call room. The clock on the wall told her that it was pushing 7:00, that her overnight shift was over, and that she had the next 36 hours off from work and free to herself, a rarity for a surgical resident. For the first time in weeks, Tara knew exactly what she was going to do next.
