Disclaimer: I don't own IPS or any of the characters.
Warning: Rated M for character death, adult themes, and angst. If those will upset you, don't read.
Author's Note: It's been so long since an update, but I will never abandon a story if I can help it. As many of you have supposed, this story was written from a place of loss, and there came a point where I needed to take some time from it. I can now inform you that the last chapter has finally been written, and while this isn't it, you can count on this story actually having an ending. There are still a few chapters to go though.
If you're still reading this, I offer my thanks for your endless, wonderful support.
7.
The late afternoon sun hung low in the sky, bathing the desert plateau in a golden glow. A small altar had been erected, bearing a large picture of Mary and an urn that held what was left of her earthly remains. A nondenominational preacher of some sort officiated the memorial service, attended by a handful of people in folding chairs that included Marshall himself, and Stan, as well as Jinx, Brandi, and Peter. Even Eleanor had flown in. Marshall knew that deep down, the two women had liked and respected each other. His father was at the house watching the baby; Shannon was far too new for such a gathering of people.
There were a few marshals there besides Stan and himself, and more cops. He should have known. Mary had liked cop bars. None of these, though, would have been any of her one-night-stands that had preceded their relationship. She didn't like to sleep with people she might encounter on the job, although there had been an occasional exception. No, these people were friends, or at least as close as Mary got to friends; they were people who remembered her fondly. Bobby Dershowitz was there, Marshall noted as he looked around.
He didn't remember a thing the preacher had said, having gotten lost in his own thoughts of Mary as the ceremony progressed. A few people who had known Mary well spoke on her behalf, kind words that brought smiles and tears to the others gathered to share their memories. It seemed altogether a nice service, one Mary would have liked if she could have been said to like that sort of thing. Stan had taken care of the arrangements and he'd done well. Marshall simply hadn't had it in him.
When all was said and done, the crowd began to disperse, some simply leaving and others waiting to offer him their condolences. Not yet ready to face them, he stepped up to the altar and rested a hand on the urn as he stared over the cliff edge a few yards beyond. This was a good place, he thought; when he was ready, perhaps, this would be the place for her. He had no idea when he would be ready for that, though.
"You," a voice came from behind him, shrill and shaking and laced with venom. He turned to find Jinx there, feet planted and fists balled at her sides as she squared off against him.
"If it weren't for you," she hissed, "my Mary would still be here. She's dead because of you, you son of a bitch!"
If the increasing volume of her voice hadn't caught the attention of the memorial attendees, the ringing slap of her hand as it struck his face certainly did. The slap was hard and he hadn't seen it coming; he stumbled back against the altar, which was fortunately fairly stable and took his weight.
"You took my daughter from me, you bastard!" Jinx screamed again, struggling against Brandi and Peter who had run forward to restrain her.
"Mom, no!" Brandi sobbed as she clung to her mother's arm desperately. "Marshall didn't do anything wrong! It isn't his fault!"
"He killed my baby!" Jinx shrieked, breaking down completely as Peter led her away to his vehicle.
Marshall stared blankly after her, his cheek reddened by the print of her hand. Brandi approached him, shaking, and took his arm to help him upright.
"Oh God," she whimpered, hiccupping softly. "Oh Jesus, Marshall, I'm so sorry…"
Marshall felt his knees start to buckle and in a heartbeat Stan was there, bearing him up and guiding him to the car as Brandi followed after, her sister's urn in her trembling hands. As Stan settled Marshall into the car, the taller man looked around as though seeking something; when his eyes came to rest on the urn, he cast a pleading look at Brandi and held out his hands.
Not knowing what else she could do, Brandi handed it to him.
Marshall sank heavily into the passenger seat of Stan's car, cradling the urn in his lap as he stared numbly ahead. He barely seemed to register his boss's presence in the driver's seat when the bald man joined him. Stan didn't know what to say after witnessing Jinx's outburst, but it was Marshall who broached the subject first after a few moments of silence.
"Stan," he addressed the other man with a choked sob, "is she right? Was this something I did?"
"Jesus, Marshall," Stan replied, aghast. "You can't put any stock in that crap she was spewing. Did you smell her? She was drunk, and that on top of losing her daughter… she wasn't talking sense. You have to know that."
"If Mary hadn't gotten pregnant, she'd still be here," Marshall whispered roughly, tears streaming down his face.
"If you hadn't agreed to give her a baby, she'd have found another way. Shannon could have been fathered by a test tube or a bar fly, and then she wouldn't have you."
Marshall knew Stan wasn't trying to malign Mary's character; it was simply a fact that when she wanted something, she would get it done, and that was that.
"Shannon would still have me, no matter who fathered her."
Stan swallowed roughly past the lump in his throat and nodded, catching Marshall's forearm in a comforting grip.
"Listen, I…" Stan hesitated. "After… after it happened, I talked to the, uh, the guy down at the morgue."
A low moan tore from Marshall's throat and his shoulders shook as he tried to control the tears that continued to flow. He'd tried, at Stan's urging, not to think of Mary in that cold place, but in the last few days it had never been far from his mind. Of course, she wasn't there any longer; all that now remained of his partner, his love, was in the urn on his lap. He made as if to rest his hands on it, only to lift them again as though touching it would burn, and he looked around helplessly for a place to put them. He settled at last on the door panel and the armrest in between the seats.
Stan waited for him to settle before continuing. "He told me that what happened to Mary… it wasn't anything either of you did, or didn't do, or could have helped. It was just one of those things, Marshall."
Marshall nodded and another sob wrenched from him; as he broke down completely, he felt Stan's arm around him as the smaller man pulled him across the center console into a fatherly hug.
"Stan," Marshall spoke softly when he finally pulled away, "please take me home. I want to be with Shannon."