Thank you so much, my 3 reviewers! You've inspired me to keep going. Hope this next installment doesn't disappoint.
By the way... I don't actually know what happened to Claire Kincaid, or what sort of relationship she & Jack had. From other fanfictions, I've gathered they were romantically involved. But I'm not sure (shippers will be shippers). So I just hint at something. Please feel free to fill me in so I can be more explicit.
2.
It was the sound of Lieutenant Anita van Buren's heels clicking down the corridor toward him that finally broke him out of his stupor. He'd been slumped on the same plastic seat for at least an hour, ever since he'd rolled off the bus with Abbie's gurney, trying not to get the disturbing images of what he'd just witnessed out of his head.
Anita's face was a mask of worried exhaustion—a mirror image of the way he felt. "Got here as soon as I heard," she said. "Any word?"
Jack shook his head helplessly. He wasn't used to being the emotional spectator—not since Claire Kincaid. That had been a harrowing episode all on its own, something he couldn't even begin to think about right now or he might fall apart. Right now he had to dissociate. It was all about Abbie. He might not like what he'd seen, but he had to preserve the memories, down to the slightest detail. His eyewitness account might be all they'd have to base their case on.
"I'll be running the investigation myself. What happened?"
He should've walked her to her car. Why the hell hadn't he? Such a simple gesture. It wasn't even that far out of his way—a few minutes at most. And it was dark. What the hell sort of boss let their young, out-of-town subordinate walk out into an abandoned parking lot by themselves after dark? He struggled to get his thoughts in order.
Abbie had seemed genuinely happy that afternoon. Not that she was ever depressive or bitter, but that day had been a success, hands down. She'd taken her commendation in stride and they'd gone their separate ways. Jack, less absorbed by the glow of their victory, had really just wanted to get home. Thankfully his motorcycle was in perfect condition, something you could never be sure of after 48 hours on a mean Manhattan street. He was on the verge of taking off when a weird sound caught his attention, even through his bike's melodious revving. He couldn't identify it at first—then realized it was a scream. A series of screams, actually—low-pitched and far away and desperate. His heart jumped into his throat when he recognized the broken voice as Abbie's.
It must be bad. It had to be bad if she was screaming—something he'd never heard her do before. He wasted no time getting himself to the parking lot and was about a hundred yards away when he noticed a man bending over a prone figure on the ground, not two feet from Abbie's prized Chrysler.
"Hey!" he yelled, breaking into a run. But he wasn't fast enough. In a second the perp had scrambled to his feet and vanished. Once Jack reached Abbie, all other concerns flew out of his mind. His formerly beautiful, competent, healthy assistant lay strewn on the ground like a rag doll, face streaked with blood, blouse torn, skirt hiked up—way, way too much skin exposed.
"Shit, oh shit," was all he could say, over and over again like a mantra. Heads were popping up everywhere now—out of windows and down from the street. Damned bystanders. Where were they while she was being attacked? Why show up now, when they couldn't do anything to help? They shouldn't be seeing her like this. This was his strong-willed caustic Abbie, "Hang'em Higher Carmichael", hardass lawyer extraordinaire. They had no right to be gawking at her like she was some faceless, nameless victim.
He stayed with her till the paramedics came, guarding her privacy as best he could from the roaming busybodies. He fought to be allowed to ride in the bus with her. But the minute the gurney disappeared into the examination room, he was banished—confined to this damned plastic seat, with nothing to do but play the scene in his mind over and over again.
What were the chances of something like this happening in the Courthouse parking lot of all places? Weren't there security cameras for Pete's sake? And where were they now? Why wasn't the place crawling with cops like it should have been? And why the hell hadn't he walked her to her car?
Anita heard his recount in respectful silence, not interrupting once. She even lay her hand on his arm—a comforting gesture he'd never seen her do before. Not even when ADA Ricci was murdered. He was inaudibly grateful for it.
"Did you get a look at the perp?"
Jack shut his eyes, doing his best to make the image as precise as possible. "Briefly. But I could talk to a sketch artist. Tall, about 6'2", white—dark hair. That's about all I saw before he ran off. I didn't even try to chase him, Anita. I just wanted to get to her."
"I know, I understand, Jack." It was one of the few times she'd ever used his first name instead of the usual businesslike McCoy. Another thing he was silently grateful for. "Did you see the perp touch anything? The car?"
"He must have. And there's got to be trace on her clothes. He was… all over her."
She didn't know. Anita didn't know what he knew—what Abbie had confided in a moment of vulnerability. That she'd been a rape victim once before. It was something he could barely bring himself to think about—the words "rape" and "Abbie" shouldn't even be allowed in the same sentence. He couldn't bear the thought of it happening again. She was the strongest person he knew but… could anyone be that strong? What if she couldn't take it? What if it destroyed her?
"I'll tell Lennie and Ed to take care of it."
A drained-looking doctor pushed his way through the swinging doors before them, causing Jack to spring from his chair like a wind-up toy.
"I'm Dr. Russell. Are you here for Miss Carmichael?"
"Yes, I'm Jack McCoy—I came in with her. How is she?" He did his best to play down his agitation, but Anita's anxious eyes clearly told him he wasn't fooling anyone.
"She sustained a mild concussion but should be okay. She's already regained consciousness, and her x-rays and CAT scan came back normal. It's mostly just cuts and bruises that should heal in a couple of weeks. I'd still like to keep her overnight for observation, since it's late and she has no relatives in the area."
"Thank God," breathed Anita.
Jack wasn't so easily appeased. His relief couldn't be complete until the doctor had answered another, more important question. One he dearly wished he could avoid. "And what about… sexual assault?"
Dr. Russell looked mildly uncomfortable. "That's really something I should be discussing only with next of kin."
Jack's throat tightened painfully as he, a prosecutor, found himself at loss of words. Since Abbie was awake, he imagined she'd know the results of her own check up, but he'd rather die than put her through the torture of asking her.
Once again, instinctively, Anita came to his rescue.
"I'm Lieutenant van Buren, the detective in charge of this case," she announced firmly. "This is an ADA we're talking about. The results of her SAE kit are evidence. I need it if one was taken."
Dr. Russell wiped his brow. "My forensic nurse will give it to you. An examination was performed at her own request. It showed no signs of sexual activity."
At her own request. It sucked Abbie should have to wake up to that as one of her primary concerns.
Even so, Jack's relief was boundless—to the point his knees almost gave out. If it hadn't been for Anita's reassuring support, he might have ended up on the floor. No wonder she was staring at him like he had six eyeballs. Hang'em High McCoy was turning into Hang On For Dear Life McCoy.