Chapter Thirteen

Someone grabbed his arm, close. A voice made it through his panic. "…Jim. I'm here."

"I'm sorry, I just ..." Jim's embarrassment was acute. He felt frozen in the moment. A confusion of cars honking, the feeling of eyes on him, his heart pounding and his breath catching in his throat.

"It's okay. Jim, here take my arm." She pulled the grip from his hand and tucked his hand into her elbow.

He walked like an automaton, he'd lost the confidence and grace he had regained earlier. Hank looked up at her worried, and she felt guilty.

"I've pushed you too fast, Jim. I'm sorry. It's my fault." She watched his eyes blinking slowly, almost rhythmically behind his glasses.

He didn't answer, just held her arm tight and put one foot after the other. Back at the apartment, in the elevator, she tried again, "Jim, please… talk to me."

"It's okay. I'm okay." He patted her arm absently and traced the bricks with his hand as they walked to his door. Inside he went through the motions of making coffee, even though they had just had one after lunch.

The doorbell rang. "That'll be Dr. Galloway, can you get it on your way out?" Jim asked, sounding almost normal.

"Please call me, Jim, tomorrow. I need to know you're okay."

In a distant voice, he promised he would.

With Jim reclined on the red couch, Allan picked up the hypnosis where they had left off the previous day. New information came up, but Jim was disassociated, disconnected and answering with accuracy devoid of any care.

By two thirty Allan decided Jim had had enough. He gave him his sleep medication and called Fisk with the update.

Karen paused,. "I'll head over and check on him before I start tomorrow," she said.

Jim woke at about six o'clock. He was cheery and offered to make dinner. Karen had been curled up on the couch watching TV, and he brought over spaghetti in big bowls, salad, and wine. "You allowed to drink at the moment?" she asked.

"No. You allowed to sleep with your partner?"

Something in the way he said it brought her head around with a snap and a gasp. He grinned.

"Jim?"

"Yes?" he asked innocently.

She screamed and launched herself at him, nearly covering them both in spaghetti and sauce. "You remember, you remember, you remember!"

He didn't answer but kissed her deeply.

"Everything?"

"No, Fido's still a mystery to me, but yeah, I think I dreamed all afternoon, about Tracey and working out how to do my job and fighting in the courts and winning and you sniggering at me on my first day when Fisk walked me into your desk. And Lyman and Marty and Tom and …"

He trailed off.

"And what?"

"And giving up my gun."

"Oh."

"And, why we stopped… this." He kissed her head.

She sighed, why was there always bad mixed in with the good? "So, when you coming back to work?"

"Soon. I think I have some more holes to fill, and I really don't think I can handle it without a guide dog, so I gotta bond with Fido I guess. And I probably have to get another okay from Allan."

Karen nodded. "Us?"

He held her in his arms. Truth was, having her here was good, but just like before, his job was his priority, and when it came down to it, he'd rather she was his partner than his lover.

"How about you stay here 'til I'm back on duty? Can you handle it that way?"

"Then everything goes back to normal?"

He nodded. "That's right. Just partners, no…gatecrashing."

She smiled. "Yes. If you can handle what you've been through, I can handle this."

They settled back on the couch, with spaghetti and crime scene descriptions of Sleepless in Seattle.

Jim dreamed. Impressions of challenge, a calm certainty, a goofy, reliable presence that didn't get rattled. A warm pressure against his knee. The first time Hank had disobeyed an order, prevented him from stepping off a curb into wide open drain. A voice next to him. "Wow, that's a great dog. You could have broken a leg in that hole.

It's at least five feet deep." The feeling of the harness grip in his hand, a steady pull forward, pause, a wait for a command. Forward, and most important of all, a feeling of certainty that the way forward was safe.

Jim woke with a start. His heart pounded and he was clammy with sweat. "Hank." He called quietly and the dog padded over. Jim checked his watch. 2 am. He pulled sweats, shoes and a jacket from the wardrobe. He motioned Hank out of the bedroom and followed him to the living room. Names, Artie, Pete, Sonny, and others rang in his head. Sonny had an image, the others were voices, impressions. But the most solid was Hank. He sunk his hands into his dog's fur and rested his head on the furry shoulder.

Moving silently through the apartment, Jim found the harness on the stand in front of the door. There was no resistance left in his mind and his hands moved easily through the sequence of strapping and buckling it under Hank's chest. In his hand, the grip felt right. He ran his hand over the new leather, smiled ruefully to himself, he even knew where it would wear down first, and missed the comfort of the old grip that he had used for years. But Hank and the harness in his hand meant freedom and independence. He no longer felt trapped in the dark. The doctor had been right, remembering hurt much less than he expected. Jim closed the door behind him and followed Hank out into the night.

Karen watched silently from the bedroom door. Tears sparkled in her eyes, but in her heart, she felt pride and admiration and something good. It felt right.

Jim sighed with relief, the fear was gone, an old familiarity settled into place. They walked familiar routes for an hour. Finally they headed for the park. He sat on the bench and remembered Friday night. The first blow had come while he sat right here, on this bench. He had fallen forward with the momentum, landing on his hands and knees, stunned so badly he hadn't been able to call out. The second blow was to his forehead, and he had known nothing more. His fingers touched the rapidly healing wound. Hank returned from his foray, put his head on Jim's knee. Jim stroked him gently. The vet had said Hank had a very hard head. Most dogs would have been killed by the blow he'd received. Jim shook his head, why hit Hank too? Attacking the detective you blamed for your imprisonment, he could understand - he'd seen a lot of desire for revenge in his time on the force - but a service dog?

"Well, Hank, we've both been to hell and back. Guess that means we can go anywhere now."

The birds had begun to call. They headed home.

Karen was asleep. He sat on the bed next to her and stroked her arm. "Mmm, I'm awake," she murmured.

"I'm heading back into the squad today." He kept his voice neutral.

On Thursday, Marty and Tom were in interview one with Marybeth when Jim arrived back in the squad. He joined Karen and Fisk in the observation room. Fisk brought him up to date, "…so, we haven't told her you're alive Jim. We want a murder confession so we can make attempted murder stick, and not just assault."

Jim nodded, "Good. She talking?"

"No. Not a word."

The voice of her lawyer came through from the speaker, "My client says there is no evidence of what Michael is saying. It's his word against hers and besides, you don't have a body. You can't charge her."

"And if we produce a body?" Marty asked mildly.

"And a crow bar with her fingerprints and his blood?" Tom added, smiling.

Marybeth's face closed down, her gloating expression melted off.

"Boss?" Jim asked, in the observation room.

"Yeah, go ahead."

Karen touched him on the arm as he stepped out of the small room. "She's on the chair directly in front of the door, Jim." Then she turned back to the mirror. This was a show she'd pay to see.

And Marybeth improvised beautifully. "I wish your wayward Detective were here, so he could tell you himself that I had nothing to do with this." Marybeth said, sounding innocent.

The door opened behind the cop killer. Before Marybeth had a chance to turn and see who was coming in, Jim put his hand on her shoulder.

"You sure about that, Marybeth?"