Chapter 6: Proper Motivation

Freddy hated being back in his shitty apartment. He had nearly gone crazy waiting by the phone during his time undercover, and had painted his entire bedroom white just to waste time. But now he hated the sight of those chalky walls. He hadn't been able to sleep in there since he got back, because it reminded him too much of the hospital ward. One night he'd gotten drunk (against doctor's orders) and smashed the place up with a baseball bat, although he regretted that now. Perhaps Holdaway had been onto something, taking him out.

Nice to just chill, though, and lie back and listen to Kathy Mattea's "A Dozen Roses," and fiddle with the Flash Gordon model he finished painting before the robbery. From where he was sprawled on the sofa, the sight of the Kamikaze Cowboy and Silver Surfer taped up side-by-side on his wall was comforting and familiar.

He'd been cleared for light duty a week ago, and the therapy sessions were much less frequent, which meant he had a lot more free time now. For the past week or so he had flipped through his magazines, but Sports and even Guns & Ammo had lost their appeal after being re-read for the thousandth time. His ashtray was overflowing on the table next to a line of empty beer bottles, and mugs holding the residue of instant coffee littered every available surface. He was reduced to lazing on the sofa and listening to music, reading comics, occasionally watching a bit of TV or a movie, thinking about nothing – or trying to, at least.

Other cops came by to visit him, now that he was close to being fully recovered. He didn't know if they'd drawn lots or what to see who would check on him every night, but someone came by, regular as clockwork. Holdaway had dropped by Saturday afternoon, but Freddy had managed to turn down his offer for another boys' night out on the town. Ursula was nice, but Holdaway was going beyond what he considered the duties of a friend. And it was frankly embarrassing, having someone else take care of that for him.

The other guys weren't so intrusive, but they all acted very odd. At first Freddy thought it might have something to do with him being in a coma. Or perhaps word of his suicide attempt in hospital had spread. But the way they seemed to avoid his eyes, deliberately sticking to neutral topics, made him suspect that they too were hiding something from him. Fuck, did everyone know something he didn't? Okay, granted, maybe he was just imagining things. Maybe he was paranoid after working undercover – but his instincts told him he wasn't.

And every fucking one of them brought food whenever they visited. Freddy didn't know if this was what you did with people who had just gotten out of the hospital. Maybe their wives had pestered them into it. In any case, he'd gotten Tupperware dishes full of everything from stew to lasagne to shepherd's pie. Even confirmed bachelor Frankie Ferchetti had come by with a box of Premium Donuts, which sat half-finished on top of the microwave. As Freddy had never cooked a proper meal in his life, he considered the benefits of hospitalizing himself more often.

Freddy appreciated the company, not to mention the meals. But he got annoyed with the constant string of visitors all trying to persuade him to do what that fucking psychiatrist had said. What the fuck did the psychiatrist know anyway?

Right on cue, somebody knocked on the door. Wondering whose turn it was this time, Freddy pushed himself to his feet.

"Hey there, Newendyke."

McKlusky was standing in the hallway sporting a wide smile. She was a blonde chick who looked a bit like the early drawings of Sue Storm from the Fantastic Four. Computer operator for the LAPD. Sharp as a whip, loved hot dogs and beer, dangerous with a handgun, and a cute little figure. Also married. As far as Freddy was concerned, though, she was just one of the guys.

"What brings you here, McKlusky?" asked Freddy, stepping back from the door so she could come in.

"I figured you weren't taking care of yourself." Her eyes lingered on the empty tin of cold spaghetti that had been his lunch.

Freddy shut the door. "So what?" he drawled. "You cooked me a chicken pot pie?"

There was that huge grin again. "Better. I got you takeout. Stopped by Big Kahuna Burger on my way over." McKlusky held up the paper bag and cardboard drink tray, and they settled on the couch with the food between them. "I didn't know what kind of pop you liked, so I got Sprite. Hope you don't mind," the woman chirped as she unpacked their meal.

Freddy didn't mind, and there were a few seconds of relative silence as they sloppily ate their burgers and fries. Freddy devoured half of his in three bites.

"So," said Freddy after swallowing thickly. "You here to tell me to do what that fucking psychiatrist ordered? Gonna try a different approach from the others? See if it works?"

McKlusky blinked and took a sip of her drink. "I don't know anything about that," she said. "Brad and I just got back from Mexico. The others said there was something you had to do to get back on the job, but they didn't go into any details. Why, what's up?"

Freddy leaned on the large green striped cushion, tilting his head back to look up at the ceiling. "I was cleared for light duty last week, but Captain Ferchetti said I had to get evaluated by a psychiatrist. So I go to the psychiatrist, and everything's goin' fine. Then the guy, Dr. Moss, finds out that I was raised a Catholic and suggests that I go to a motherfucking confession! Well I said fuck that, so Dr. Moss tells me I can't go back on the job until I confess my sins. Can you believe that shit?" He savagely shoved a handful of fries into his mouth.

McKlusky was frowning at him. "You're a Catholic, Newendyke?" she asked.

"No, I – Not really. I mean, yeah, okay, I was raised a Catholic. But I don't really do that shit anymore."

"You go to church?" asked McKlusky, taking a large bite from her burger.

Freddy stared at her. "Not for a while. Last time I was at a motherfucking confession was over four fuckin' years ago."

"Hmm…" McKlusky wiped her fingers on a napkin and swallowed. "So basically, the only thing stopping you from returning to duty is one measly confession."

"It's a stupid condition given by a stupid psychiatrist, and you fucking well know it."

The woman shrugged, red leather jacket squeaking slightly. "So why don't you just fake it?"

"I dunno," Freddy mumbled. He tossed his empty cup into the corner of the room. "It's just so fucking ridiculous. It'd be giving in or something."

McKlusky was shaking her blonde head. "Don't be like that, Newendyke," she scolded. "I know you wanna come back. You're a good guy. You loved your job. You loved being on the case." She stuffed the remains of their meal into the paper bag, crumpling it up into a ball and lobbing it into the trash. With a sigh, she pulled off her stiletto boots and propped her naked feet up on the arm of his sofa.

Looking at her, Freddy decided that she would answer his questions truthfully. "Listen," he said quietly, "I know the other cops aren't telling me something." McKlusky froze, rummaging for gum in her purse, but she kept listening. "Whenever they see me they look at me funny, and I don't think it's the coma thing. What is it that you guys ain't telling me?"

McKlusky turned her head and looked at him long and hard. Finally she sat up. "Okay Freddy. You got a right to know. You'll find out anyway." She paused, popping a piece of gum into her mouth. "One of the guys you did the job with is called Vic Vega," she told him quietly. "He's also known as Toothpick Vic."

"Vic Vega?" Freddy repeated. "Which one was he?"

"The one you shot," said McKlusky with a twisted smile.

"Blonde."

"Nope. Dark hair."

Freddy waved his hand. "I mean, that was his phoney name. Mr. Blonde."

The woman blinked. "Oh, right… Well anyway, you shot him twice in the chest, and got him in the arm and both legs too." McKlusky paused. "But he didn't die."

Freddy's mind froze up, and his tongue tripped over itself: "Wh– what?"

McKlusky nodded gloomily. "I know. It gets worse. He was rushed to Emergency, sirens blaring, critical condition and everything. Transferred to rehab after two weeks, but he attacked some people and was put in the psych ward. So picture this: while you're still comatose, he cuts through his restraints and escapes from the hospital on foot, killing a security guard on his way out with the guy's own radio. It was a mess. That was three months ago, and we still have no clue where he is."

"The guy's fucking insane," Freddy breathed, horrified that the same man who had so cheerfully mutilated Marvin Nash was now at large. He pulled out a cigarette and let his mind work overtime. Mr. Blonde, Vic Vega, was the madman responsible for the botched robbery. If he hadn't gone crazy and killed the employees, the other cops wouldn't have moved in, nobody would've suspected a set-up, and Joe Cabot would've been arrested without a problem.

Nobody would have died. None of the employees would have died, and none of the innocent civilians. None of the cops, and none of the crooks either. Not Larry, not Marvin, and not the woman in the car. And all because of Vic fucking Vega. If it meant that he could rejoin the force and hunt down this fucking madman, then that was it. He would go to a motherfucking confession.

A/N: McKlusky appears in the deleted scene "Background Check", which is also in the script if you want to read it (in the script she's Jodie Seigel, Computer Operator). And as for our Mr. Blonde, here's a tidbit from the DVD interview with Michael Madsen: "In the sequel I could be in the emergency room. Of course, Mr. Orange at that point would be dead. He'd be gone. But I'd survive, in the emergency room, because I didn't lose nearly that much blood." I agree with you on one count, Mike.