Playing God (20 page)

He put his gun away, fumbled the radio off his belt, called in the code for an officer needing assistance. Trying not to fall on his face. His left arm hung useless. Blood poured from his throbbing head. Then Alana was there, propping him up, pulling the radio from his hand.

"Can you hear me?" she asked. No codes. No subtlety. Just a terrified woman's voice. "It's Joe Burgess. Someone hit him in the head and he's bleeding something awful. There's another cop here, took off after the guy. We're down at the Dunkin' Donuts and we need help. Can you hear me?"

"Yes, ma'am. Which Dunkin' Donuts?" The voice calm and reassuring. Dispatch sat in a darkened room. It was peaceful and soothing and didn't distract them from their terminals and their consoles. Alana gasped out their location. "Help is on the way, ma'am. Is Sergeant Burgess conscious?"

"Sort of," she said, "if moaning like a sick cat means conscious."

He'd never live that down. The day he retired they'd still be looking at him and thinking "sick cat." He pushed away from her and grabbed the radio. "This is Burgess," he said. "I'm okay. Going over to the hospital for some stitches. Aucoin needs backup. Tell medcu to stay home."

"We have officers en route."

"Good." He put the radio away and leaned back against the car, his face tilted toward the sky and the icy bite of the snow, sucking in air and trying to clear his head. Warm blood dripped down his neck. He cradled his left arm with his right, cushioning pain as fierce as a toothache, readying himself to get back in the car and drive. Alana stood quietly beside him, silent except for the occasional sob.

"You okay?" he grunted.

"I... he... I don't know." She moved closer. "I told you there was this guy..."

Oughta ask what guy, but he couldn't focus on anything beyond his pounding head. "Hold that thought," he told her.

Time passed, the world around them empty and still as the relentless snow turned them into ghosts. It was a slow-motion emergency, help coming with the speed of a different age, trudging and ponderous, cops slewing into the parking lot in a noisy red, white and blue confusion. Kyle materialized, pulled enough information from him to sort it out, and put them all to work.

"Joe, I need your car keys."

He fumbled through his pockets before remembering they were still in the door. Kyle helped him in. "Wait," Alana said. "I'm coming with you."

"Guy who hit me was waiting for her." Burgess tried to keep his bloody head away from the seat. Nobody wants to ride with the smell of his own blood. There was a plastic bag in the back. "Grab that bag, Ter, would you? The seat?" Then they were backing up, making him vaguely seasick. As they lurched forward and headed onto the street, the car slithering through the ruts and ridges, it got so bad he had to lower the window and let the wind blow into his face. Better frostbite than being sick in his car.

Alana screamed when she saw him in the light, his face and hands red with blood. Kyle told her to go in the waiting room and shut up. For once, she didn't argue.

"Someone tried to snatch her, Terry," Burgess said. "Roughed her up. Better ask security to keep an eye on her."

"I'll take care of her," Kyle said.

Burgess gave an outline of the attack, then lapsed into a passive state and let the docs do their thing, figuring it was about as much rest as he was going to get. He was examined—probably concussed; stitched—fifteen; and X-rayed—possible minor fracture of the upper arm. No cast. Wear a sling and take it easy. No jogging, no jarring, no heavy lifting. The doctor used the ridiculous word "rest" followed by the equally absurd "take it easy."

The shift commander came and stared at him, asked the doc some questions, reported Aucoin hadn't been able to catch the guy, and patted his shoulder, telling him to take it easy for a few days. That made two votes for taking it easy.

"Easy?" he said. "I'm the primary on a homicide."

Finally, after he'd been poked, prodded, repaired and drugged enough to take the gasping edge off the pain, they left him alone. A large, friendly, middle-aged nurse came in and closed the curtains. "I'm going to clean you up." She went to work with a washcloth and a basin of warm water, getting the dried and sticky blood off his face, his neck and out of his ears. She washed as much as she could out of his hair, off his hands, out from between his fingers, gently as a mother with a small child. It was pleasant to lie there, half dozing, and be ministered to.

As the warm washcloth stroked and soothed, she said, "You're working on Dr. Pleasant's murder, aren't you?" He managed an affirmative sound. "Maybe you should look at drugs being prescribed for terminal, even deceased, cancer patients."

Lassitude fled. "Your name?"

"Margaret Keller. But I'd prefer not to appear in your reports."

"Then why talk to me?" Making no promises about anonymity.

"I never liked him. He was a vile man. I used to wish something bad would happen to him, so he'd know how other people felt. Maybe I'm feeling guilty."

"Wait." He struggled to get his brain on line again. "How do you know?"

"Hospital rumors. That's all. I have to go." She went out, closing the curtain behind her.

No one had said anything about admitting him or letting him go. They'd taken his clothes, put him back together, numbed the pain and abandoned him. He wanted to go home to his own bed, and sleep. Maybe Terry would drive him. And there was still Alana. She'd have to swallow her distrust and talk to someone else. He wasn't hearing confession tonight. It might not fall on deaf ears, but it would fall on a deaf brain.

Slowly, very slowly, he sat up. Not his first head injury. The first time, he'd gotten up off the table like a raging bull and fallen flat on his face. He sat on the edge of the bed and took inventory. Two working feet in wet, heavy boots. Pants. His belt, with gun and cuffs, though his radio was gone. His wallet and his badge. That was important, that he hadn't lost his gun. Losing his gun and moaning like a sick cat, he'd have to go away to the Yukon or the Northwest Territory and live out his days. He was wearing a bloody tee-shirt. His left arm bore an enormous reddish-purple bruise and was swollen and puffy. Carefully, he slid his feet toward the floor. Made contact. Stood up. The room rocked a little and settled down. His heartbeat whooshed in his ears.

Someone jerked back the curtain and came in. Young cop with a notebook. Come to take his story. Like he wouldn't be at work in the morning and able to write the report himself. "Sheffield, sir. If I could have a moment." Winced at the blood on his shirt and his ugly arm and pulled out a pen. He saw himself, years and years ago, wearing the same uniform, carrying the same notebook, clicking the same pen. "Sir. Shouldn't you be lying down?"

Go ahead, kid. Make me feel old as the hills.
Still, it wasn't a bad idea. If he couldn't leave, he might as well lie down. He hadn't felt tired before. The adrenaline, probably. Now he felt flattened. What his body didn't tell him he heard in his voice, a lethargic recounting of those few intense moments. Then it was over, he was thanked, called sir again, and the officer left.

"Ready?" Kyle waved a plastic bag. "Got your meds, pal. Dandy chemical relief."

He did the careful slide off the table again. Kyle picked up the bag of soggy clothes and followed, matching his normal brisk step to Burgess's slow one. If the world moved at 33 rpms, Kyle moved at 45. The car was at the door, already warm, wipers slapping away the snow. Kyle slung the bag into the back seat, waited until he was in, and shut the door like a prom date. He'd done the same thing for Kyle. They'd all done it for each other. Sooner or later, everyone went home hurting.

He hadn't noticed Alana in the back until she leaned forward and said, "Joe. I'm sorry." Like it was her fault.

"You set me up, Alana?"

"How can you even ask?" There was a note in her voice that was rare. Soft, vulnerable, scared. A young girl's voice that recalled how they'd met. Five years ago. Alana a luscious seventeen, the new kid in town. Too hot, too popular, too new at the game to know it was important to keep the other girls on her side. A couple of girls, jealous and angry, got some biker friends of theirs to rape and beat her. They dumped her, naked and bloody, down in the park on a cold November night. He was out looking for a witness when he found her.

The image of her honey colored body, curled in a fetal position on the frosty ground, was still clear in his mind. Scooping back the hair from her face to look for breath, for a pulse. He'd wrapped her in his coat, carried her to the car, and driven her to the hospital. She'd clung to his hand like a frightened child that day, so hurt and violated, begging him not to leave her among strangers. He'd stayed as long as he could. Gone back to visit. When she was ready to leave but still needed care, he'd taken her to his sister's. Sandy had tried hard to get Alana off the streets. Lost the battle, but Sandy still invited her for holidays, baked a cake on her birthday.

He tipped his head back and rested, so beat it was an effort to breathe, watching the world float by through half-open eyes. Heard her repeat her question, very faintly. Didn't bother to answer. Kyle answered for him. "Leave him alone, Alana. He knows you didn't."

"I couldn't bear it, you know, if he thought..."

"He doesn't," Kyle said. "He knows you, remember?" Talking like he wasn't there.

"Don't you think I know that? I just feel bad. I'd never hurt him. It's only that ever since what happened back when I met Joe, I've always tried to keep a balance. Try to give him what he wants and still cover my ass on the street."

"Come on, Alana, you never cover your ass on the street."

Kyle at his most loquacious. Speaking whole sentences. All to comfort a distraught hooker so she wouldn't bother a battered colleague. Better guys were hard to find. He had a million questions for Alana, so many things to tell Kyle. Couldn't summon the energy to do either. He stopped listening to their conversation and drifted.

Chapter 16

He submitted in a dozy haze to having his clothes removed, and fell into bed. He felt her tuck the covers around him and their voices moved away, becoming a background hum as he was sucked down into sleep.

He thought she'd gone until he heard soft footsteps, the sound of covers being pulled down, and she slipped into bed beside him, fitting the curves of her body to his. When he woke, in pain, a few hours later, she was up in a flash and back with pills and water. "Nurse Jane Fuzzywuzzy," she muttered, settling back into her place beside him, a hooker who made lit refs to Uncle Wiggly.

He waited for the pills to work, listening to her breathe, thinking how few times in the last years he'd slept beside a woman, felt that alien warmth, the unfamiliar sounds of another person's rest. The hot ache in his arm surged like a fever, his shame at letting himself get ambushed fanning it into an angry sweat. He clenched his teeth and endured the pounding in his head, the sickness and dizziness, thinking that he deserved it. This was his penance for inattention, for letting himself get beat down.

Finally, the medicine kicked in, bringing a gentle lethargy that let him sleep. With the sleep came dreams. He sat beside his mother, holding her swollen, unresponsive hand, watching the electronic read-outs of hope and hopelessness, as she failed in full screen living color. Doing the death watch, there for her as she'd always been for him. His sisters came and cried and left and came to do it all again, making him the rock for everyone. He'd never cried.

In his dream, he cried with a dream's surrealism. Tears flowed in silver columns down his face, tracing silver stripes down his clothes, pooling at his feet like mercury. In the hospital he'd sat silent. In his dream, he spoke of those magical nights by the window when she taught him to see, of his anger toward his father, his sorrow that her life had given her so little of what she deserved. Said all the things she'd died without hearing.

The dream took on an angry reddish hue that spread until the light was ruddy and thick with it. He gripped that unresponsive hand, infested with tubes and wires, that wrist that now came with a little stopper cock so they could draw blood like water, and spoke about his anger at Dr. Stephen Pleasant, who had been in too great a hurry to read the x-rays carefully. Who had sent her home healthy while the deadly disease kept growing, let her go a year in pain, a woman who trusted doctors. Who had condemned her to death.