Chapter 3

Little boys were supposed to be like their fathers. Society encouraged it. His mother did her best to shoehorn him into the mold, but Frankie never saw his father as a role model. The elder Rizzoli was a good man, just not one that he aspired to be.

So when Mrs. Pyle assigned her first grade class to write a one-page paper titled "Who Is Your Hero?" young Frankie wrote his paper on Jane. The classroom erupted in laughter as he read it out loud. During recess the boys took turns shoving him to the ground for wanting to be a girl.

Jane promptly climbed over the chain link fence seperating their grades and stomped on all their feet with her cowboy boots.

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"You move fast. We almost lost your trail until we found that stack of rotters you left behind," he said. Then he smiled, his voice a whisper tinged with pride. "The guys can't believe you took out three on your own. Close combat like that? Holy shit, Jane!"

He looked older now but his boyish features never seemed to fade. Maybe that was just the way Jane saw him. He would always be her kid brother.

She smiled back, humbled, not quite understanding how he was sitting next to her. She had twisted a gun into her liver and pulled the trigger. A lot before that was a blur, memory loss by trauma and stupidity. One of the few things she could recollect? Frankie coughing up a pool of blood as she and Maura tried desperately to save his life.

No, not tried. Maura had saved him. And she still hadn't found Maura.

She wore a red dress that day.

Frankie continued on obliviously, "—and once you get back to base you'll see."

Jane snapped out of it. "Wait what? Base? I'm not going to any base."

He blinked once. Then twice. "What do you mean?"

"I need to be out here," she said simply. "I'm not sure your 'base' is where I belong." She considered her words and hell, if she wasn't making any sense.

Frankie's reaction confirmed her thoughts.

"So you'd rather run around out here and risk getting killed than come back with us? You can't be serious. It's…it's crazy!"

"That's not what I said. I said I wasn't sure," Jane rubbed her forehead. How could she explain this without sounding nuts?

"The government is rebuilding, Jane. Finally. We have resources, supplies, people, soldiers. Come back with us, you'll see. I promise it's not like it was before," he implored but she stared at her hands, trying to find a way to convince him he was wrong.

The other three soldiers had spread out in a circular pattern to finish canvassing the area. Brief introductions had been made before they continued with their orders, giving her and Frankie a bit of privacy.

"You trust those guys?" she tipped her chin in their direction.

"I do. They're good men."

"Good men..." she repeated, not even bothering to hide her bitterness.

Frankie got up and stood in front of her, eyes filled with empathy. Empathy for God-knows-what his sister had gone through and the strength it took to keep going. So many others had given up and even with their Catholic upbringing he didn't blame them one bit.

There was no way he was letting her go.

"I'm not gonna pretend that I know what it was like for you out here. There are still rotters all over the place. And the outlaws? They're almost worse. Jesus…" He put his hand on her shoulder. "You're lucky that you're still in one piece, lucky you've gotten this far. You're tougher than anyone I know but even you... All this time out here on your own, aren't you exhausted?"

She stared out in the distance. Exhausted did not begin to describe it. Her refusal to let that - or anything else for that matter - stop her was, in Jane's opinion, one of her better qualities.

But it had all come perilously close to ending that morning. She never imagined she would have to endure so much for so long. Jane was far from weak, but she was still human. It might be smarter to recharge and then set out again.

He impatiently waved his hand up and down at her. "Is this what you really want? God, look at you Jane with the blood and the knives and the...the everything. You look like Rambo for Chrissakes!"

She chuckled softly.

"Seriously. I'm kinda scared of you."

"Frankie stop," she smiled warmly at him.

"No really. Scared of you. What's with the crouching tiger, hidden dragon thing anyway? Don't you have a gun?"

"Trust me, out here the blade is mightier than the bullet," she assured.

"Jane, I'm not going back without you. You're my sister and I love you."

"Aww, Frankie," she mocked.

He ignored her. "If I have to drag you back kicking and screaming, I'll do it."

She raised her eyebrow at him.

"I might shit my pants, but I will do it."

One of the men called out in their direction. "Hey Frank! We gotta head back soon. Area's clear."

He could probably tell by her stubborn ass face that she wasn't going.

"Listen Frankie-"

"I can't go back and tell mom I left you out here," the words spilled out so fast they ran together like marbles.

If Jane weren't already sitting she might have crumbled.

"Ma?" she asked quietly.

"Yea. She's back at base. Runs the freakin' mess hall, go figure," he said, voice nearly breaking, belying his smile.

"Pa? Tommy?" Jane was on her feet now, eager to know more. Hopeful.

The question was inevitable. Playing the mom card meant he would have to reveal his entire hand. With eyes cast downward he shook his head.

"No Janie. Pa and Tommy…no."

A pregnant pause hung between them as those horrible words gave way to meaning. The proper reaction might be to cry. Jane turned from him knowing the tears would not come.

Ever the realist, she had spent the long days mourning while barricaded in her modest apartment. She had buried their memories, all of them, one by one, as the winter and the rotters raged outside. They were sad reminders, ones she couldn't burden herself with. Not if she intended to live.

She had only carried Maura in her heart as she clawed her way out of Boston and roamed this godforsaken wasteland. Days turned into weeks. Weeks became months. Could she bear months becoming years? Yes. If Maura was out there, undeniably yes.

But Frankie had just given her the worst reality check ever.

Maybe you're chasing a ghost.

Jane hated herself for even thinking it. Her fingers pulled at her hair, mussing up the stretch of her ponytail and she let out a frustrated growl. Her fists flailed out, punching at nothing in particular.

Frankie stepped back in surprise when she whipped around to face him.

"Where's..."

The name wanted to escape her lips. It mangled her throat, demanding to be known. But she'd not said it out loud for so long and Jane just couldn't do it. She wasn't ready to know, she might not ever be ready.

Coward.

Frankie was waving off his guys, trying to buy them a little more time. He looked at her expectantly.

"Where's your base?" she sighed.

Frankie beamed.

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The compound loomed over their military vehicle, its securely fortified entrance manned by soldiers. AK-47s, flak jackets, helmets, walkie talkies. The high stone walls and coils of barbed wire would easily keep out the rotters and fend off all but the most determined outlaw.

The irony of the situation was not lost on Jane.

"A prison? Really?" she mumbled to her brother.

"I know but think about it. The design is perfect."

"Only this time we're keeping the baddies out not in..."

"Exactly."

They came to a stop and Frankie motioned for her to step out of the truck with him.

There were people everywhere.

He had told her the base housed over eight hundred civilians and militia. Now they surrounded her, walking around as if nothing ever happened. Men and women in everyday clothes stared at her like she was an alien. Their scrutinizing glances peppered her like fleas. Jane scowled and wondered when any of them had last seen a rotter.

Frankie sensed the tension radiating off her.

"Easy sis."

She didn't notice when a tall man carrying a clipboard walked up to them.

"And who do we have here?"

"Jane Rizzoli," Frankie answered. He was trying so hard not to smile. "She's my sister."

The man peered over his thin glasses resting on his thin nose. "Not often that we get reunions. Lucky you," he said dryly.

Jane bristled. "I'm sorry and who are you?"

He ignored her and scribbled something down on his clipboard.

"Okay Miss Rizzoli, surrender your weapons here and go with this soldier." He signaled to an armed man who quickly trotted over. "He will take you to debriefing. After that you'll be processed and assigned a room."

The fuck?

"The hell I will," she growled. Her hands dropped protectively to the weapons belt slung around her waist.

He arched an eyebrow at her hostility, his eyes moving from her hands to Frankie.

"Just give us a second," Frankie said. He took Jane by the arm and led her a few steps away. She hadn't stopped glaring at the other man. "Look, I should have warned you about this part. I'm sorry."

"I'm not handing over my weapons."

"I understand this sucks for you, but you can't just carry your gun and sword around. Most of the people here are civilians."

"Machete," she corrected.

"Please Jane. Trust me."

She fixed him with a hard stare, her jaw set firmly.

He ran his hand through his shorn, crew-cut hair. "Give them to me then. I will take you to the debrief myself, okay?" More staring. He whispered harshly, "Dammit Jane, if you don't cooperate they will take your things by force and then I won't be able to vouch for you anymore. Please."

Her lips pressed into a thin line and she closed her eyes. She couldn't believe she was doing this.

"Fucking shit..."

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