Part Five: Cover up
Jesse slid back the shower door and reached blindly for a towel. The pounding spray had gone a long way toward making him feel human again. After a double shift at CG the day before, then half a shift at Bob's followed by four hours at Keller Memorial, he had been a little tired. But the couple hours that had followed at Bob's so that he could pick up the night's receipts and prepare the restaurant for the next day had done him in. By the time he'd dragged himself through his apartment door, he hadn't been sure whether he was coming or going. It had taken an effort of will to bypass the bed that had been alluringly whispering his name.
He briskly dried himself before heading to the bedroom where he slipped into clean clothes for the shift at CG that he was scheduled to start in - he looked toward the bedside clock - just under an hour. He was going to have to hurry if he wanted to have time to grab some breakfast.
The ringing of the phone halted him half through putting his shoes on. He found it under the khaki's he'd thrown off earlier. As he picked up the phone and clicked the 'talk' button, he felt the pants fall heavily back to the floor.
"Hello?" He propped the phone up to his ear as he fished through his back pocket for the item that he'd left in them earlier. It was something he was definitely going to need if he was going to be paying for the food he planned to eat.
"Hi Mark," he responded to the voice that he heard on the other end of the line. "Steve or Cheryl?" he asked, as the wallet came free of the pants pocket. He slid it into the matching compartment of the pair that he was wearing. Something black poking out of the side pocket of the discarded khakis caught his attention. It was the scarf the woman from the night before had given him. He had gotten distracted and forgotten about his intention to turn the item in to the desk attendant. He picked it up, intending to take it with him so that he could take it later after work.
But the seriousness of Mark's tone when he answered his question drove the thought from his mind. On autopilot he moved toward the bed and sat down. "How bad is it?" he wanted to know.
Steve's eyes flew open. He felt out of sorts, as if he had just woken from a horrible nightmare. But something was different, off kilter. For one thing, he was fairly certain that he hadn't been dreaming. He gazed around unfamiliar confines in search of clues. The unmistakable décor of a hospital room registered immediately, though the strange layout only increased the feelings of disorientation. Then, with a wallop, memories began to rush back.
The wild chase through the woods, trees moving jerkily by in the darkness … finding Cheryl, covered in blood, another officer standing by … the ambulance ride . . . . That memory sent him rocketing into an inadvisable sitting position. Painful reminders from abused muscles played second fiddle to the stomach dropping vertigo that smacked hard into him. He couldn't stop the groan that escaped, and it took several moments of carefully moderated breaths for things to settle back to relative normal.
The remainder of the memories returned then, much more sedately, ending with the hazy recollection of having woken some time in the night. His dad had been there hovering nearby. There were vague words which Steve's mind couldn't quite latch on to, but he knew that they had been what he'd needed to hear. Cheryl still lived. There was an unsettling blank after that.
Determination flooded through him as he looked toward the IV that had been inserted into his hand and then taped down against his arm. He'd seen enough of them removed, how hard could it be? He closed his eyes and pulled it from his vein, trying hard to ignore squicky way it made him feel. Next step, get out of bed.
Moving much more slowly than he had initially, he maneuvered himself toward the edge. The cool air hit bare legs, reminding him that he wore only the skimpy hospital issue gown. He grimaced. This was definitely not what he wanted to be wandering around wearing, medical facility or otherwise. But the uncertainty that remained in the back of his mind drove him onward. He had to go see her - make sure that nothing had changed while he slept.
He hated the weak feeling in his legs when he got himself into a mostly-standing position, but at least the room stayed on the level. Several stiff steps across the cold tile floor got him to the door where he checked to ensure that the gown covered everything it should before stepping out into the hall. He had just stepped through the doorway when someone suddenly appeared in front of him.
"Dad!" Sluggish reflexes managed to bring him to an abrupt, slightly unsteady, halt just before a collision occurred. A rush of adrenaline that made him more dizzy than alert assaulted his brain.
Mark, looking equally surprised, grabbed instinctively for Steve's arms. That was when Steve remembered the injury there. Vividly. Pain receptors fired off their displeasure. He sucked in a shocked, involuntary breath and the world hazed for just a moment.
"Steve! I'm so sorry!" Mark's voice seemed distant for several moments before returning to crystal clarity at about the same time that he released the pressure on Steve's injured arm.
Steve released a shuddering breath at the anguished apology, wanting to reassure his father, but really needing a minute. The times were rare when he'd seen his father look so pale, or his expression contorted with such horror and self-recrimination.
"I'm sorry, son. I didn't see you there," Mark continued, his voice deepened by emotion.
"I'm fine, dad," he finally managed to reassure his father, but there was not much he could do about the breathless quality of his voice. Instead, he reached a hand toward the older man and patted him on the shoulder, and offered his best smile. "If I would have known you'd posted yourself as guard I wouldn't have tried to sneak out."
Mark didn't laugh at the weak attempt at humor, but some of the tension did leave him. "That doesn't change the fact that I grabbed you like that and probably broke open your stitches."
Steve didn't resist as he was directed gingerly back toward the bed. He noticed that Mark's hand didn't quite touch his uninjured arm as he ushered him along.
Steve figured that was a good thing because then he wouldn't feel the perspiration that had broken out in involuntary response to the pain that had settled to a dull, throbbing ache. It would have only made Mark feel worse.
"I know it wasn't intentional," he said as they crossed the room. "You were trying to keep me from falling - which would have hurt worse, by the way. And I've had enough ripped stitches to know what they feel like. I think these are fine."
"Why don't you let me be the judge of that?" Mark insisted, settling him on the bed and gently prodding the edge of the bandage. After several moments of perusing the area, he spoke. "There doesn't seem to be any bleeding," he admitted.
"Told you," Steve said with the hint of a chuckle.
"I should ask your doctor to take a look at it," Mark continued, his gaze still focused on the area. "Maybe ask him to give you something for the pain."
"Dad." Steve sighed long-sufferingly. "I really don't need anything. It's much better now. Besides," he teased, "you're a doctor; you should be used to seeing a little pain."
"Not yours." Mark speared him with a look, his tone very serious. "And I'm certainly not used to causing it."
Steve sobered. "I'm okay, Dad. I promise." Then, deciding that a change of subject was in order, "Now, as for where I was stealing away to. I was going to go see Cheryl. How's she doing?"
Mark's expression sent a breath of fear through him. He'd seen that look often enough when there was bad news to be imparted. "What is it?" he asked, feeling a different sort of pain sneaking in on him.
"I think I'll go find some coffee while you have a visit," Mark spoke in muted tones as he steered Steve's wheel chair into the dimly lit neurosurgical ICU. "You want anything?"
"No, thanks," Steve replied, though he figured they both knew the coffee was an excuse to give him some time alone with his partner. His father had been subtly trying to tell him what to expect since they'd left the room. Still, Steve's mouth dropped open when the wheel chair was brought to a halt in the curtained off section that had been assigned to Cheryl.
He barely heard the reassuring words that were spoken gently, or felt the pat on his shoulder before Mark quietly took his leave. Steve could do little more than stare.
Having been in and around hospitals for so much of his life, added to being a cop, Steve had seen many people in critical situations. But none of that mattered when the person laying in the bed, tied to an army of machines, was someone close. Then it packed an emotional punch that took hold of your insides and twisted tighter and tighter until you thought you might choke on the worry and the fear.
As he sat there in his wheel chair, he felt frozen in place. The machines continued like stoic sentries, performing their duties. Beeping, whirring, inflating, strobing, flashing - yet, the woman on the bed looked washed out, drained of everything that made her Cheryl. She seemed to have no life left in her. He didn't want to even imagine that her unique spark might be gone forever. But he had no choice.
The words that Mark had spoken to him back in the room might not have been completely familiar, but their intent was more than clear. Terms like 'closed skull fracture', 'Glasgow coma scale', 'brain injury', 'potential neurological deficits'; it all boiled down to the fact that no one could say with any certainty whether Cheryl would ever truly be Cheryl again.
Anger and frustration began to roil beneath the surface. Why wasn't there anything that he could do? Why hadn't he been the one to be hit harder? He clenched his fists - he was going to find out who had attacked her in the woods the night before and why.
As he began to think along those lines, other questions came to mind, like: Why hadn't he checked to make sure that there wasn't anyone else around before he'd gone off after Brine?
Bottom line, he should have called for back up sooner. He was the senior officer; it was his responsibility. He had known in his gut that there was someone in that warehouse and still he'd left his partner with no one to watch her back.
A stabbing edge of guilt sliced through him - he was to blame for the extent of her injuries. He looked bleakly toward the dark hand that lay atop the bed sheet. He wanted to reach across that distance and touch her, but something held him back.
"I'm -" The word fought its way out amid the sound of machinery. He had to clear his throat before he could let the rest of the words spill over. "I'm sorry, partner." They'd been whispered, but they seemed stark and alien in the darkened room. Worse, he wasn't sure if he was more afraid of disturbing her unnatural slumber or the fact that she couldn't hear him. But once the words started, more wanted to come.
"I promise I'll make someone pay for this. I promise. You just stay here and worry about getting well. And when you do, you can help me put them away." The words made him feel better, gave him a direction in which to move.
Having stated that small peace, he reached forward and wrapped his hand around hers. It was cool and unresponsive beneath his larger one and he automatically tightened his grip, seeking to warm her. He half expected her to open her eyes and tease him, but she didn't. Her face remained frozen and emotionless.
For the space of a heartbeat everything seemed utterly hopeless. The air fairly echoed it, filled as the room was with other shadowy cubicles, occupied by those who were just managing to hang on to life.
As if prophetic, he heard the unmistakable high pitched whine of a heart monitor machine sounding a warning somewhere along the row of curtains. Medical personnel scrambled about in carefully orchestrated chaos. But that didn't erase the reality that nearby someone was dying.
He squeezed Cheryl's hand. She wouldn't die on him. Not like this. Not without giving him a chance to make it right. Not without allowing him to do something to make up for his error in judgment. "I'm so sorry, Cheryl."
"What are you doing?"
The voice startled Steve, and he turned quickly and looked up at the tall man standing in the opening of the cubicle. He looked vaguely familiar, but it was a few moments before it registered who he was. He had seen him a couple of times in the picture that Cheryl carried around in her wallet.
Releasing Cheryl's hand, offered it to the man. "I'm Steve Sloan, Cheryl's partner. You must be Marc Banks."
Marc didn't return the handshake, merely ignored the gesture. "I know who you are," he said. "And I want you to leave. Now."
"Lopez. Step into my office, please."
"Yes, Sir," Emma responded to the voice on the other end of the phone line, then quickly gulped the remainder of her coffee. When she'd seen Chief Masters enter the Captain's office followed by Tanis Archer, she'd known that the precious few moments she'd managed to grab a bite to eat were numbered.
She quickly shuffled the papers that she was reviewing into a file folder and made her way toward the office door then moved smoothly inside. The three faces that greeted her were grim. She had the distinct feeling of being an outsider, as if they knew something that she didn't. Refusing to show her unease, she settled into the remaining seat.
"Give us an overview of what you have so far, Lt. Lopez." It was Woodruff who gave the order. Emma nodded, though she knew that the statement could only be for the benefit of Masters and Archer. Woodruff himself had spoken with her in the wee hours for an update after which he'd told her to go home and get some sleep as she was being transferred to day shift. That had been just over six hours ago.
Ignoring the fact that she'd only managed three meager hours of shut-eye, she began to speak. Through the recitation of the facts, Masters' expression remained chilly and remote. Nothing unusual there. He more than rated the nickname that was only ever murmured where there was no chance of more senior officers overhearing. Though Emma didn't doubt that those who dealt with him more often called him worse than 'Ice Man' judging by the frustration level that she'd seen on occasion.
"Anything come back yet from the lab?" Masters asked when she wound to a halt.
"No," Emma replied. "But I've asked them to put a rush on what they could. Absolute top priority. I expect to hear something by lunch time."
"Good." Masters grunted, then cut an eye toward Tanis. "Detective Archer will be assisting you in this department's investigation. I am sure that you will both do your jobs despite any affiliation with the officers involved. There will be intense scrutiny, under which you will be expected to perform as professionals. Now, are there any questions?"
Emma shook her head, while Archer simply looked at her hands. Masters seemed to take that as an affirmative. With a small, chilly raising of the corners of his mouth, he excused himself from the room.
Emma looked toward the captain. She and Tanis hadn't truly been excused. She wondered if it was time for that other shoe to drop, the one that would answer the question about what everyone else in the room had known but her. She didn't have long to wait.
"Have you read the paper this morning?" Woodruff asked her, tossing a copy in her direction.
Emma felt a jolt of anxiety rush through her. The investigation had barely begun - aside from knowing that things weren't looking very good, she didn't know much of anything. Surely something hadn't been leaked at this early juncture. That would be devastating.
"I hadn't had a chance," she managed as she picked the paper up. It had been folded over and she noticed that the page she'd been directed to was page 3.
"Not front page," Woodruff said. "But they are digging, and they're digging hard. We need to get a good outcome on this one, and fast."
Emma nodded as she scanned the title above the picture that had obviously been taken at the scene the night before. It showed a number of official vehicles in front of the old warehouse. 'Police hushed in incident on quiet street', it read. Quickly scanning, she caught the inference that the department might be on the verge of another cover-up.
Great, she thought. Just what I need.
