1.03 Mon. Feb. 23
THE days Gideon spent at the hospital blended into a single, painful blur. Long stretches of second-guessing his walk into the Secret Service's trap, broken only by the physical discomfort of the nurses changing dressings on his leg, and draining the wound in his shoulder. Antibiotics and painkillers kept him semiconscious.
After the first few days they moved him into a room with a television, but most of the time he was too groggy to follow what was happening on it.
His memory of the news was a disjointed series of reports on his progress. Watching reporters talk about him was an alien sensation, like thinking of himself in the third person.
On the news, Gideon graduated from critical to guarded to stable. Though he, himself, couldn't identify any changes.
The one image that penetrated the haze of antibiotics was his brother's televised funeral. The broadcast caught him completely unaware. He was too out of it to realize what day it was, and it was several minutes in before he realized what he was watching.
On the TV he saw the flag-draped casket; officers in dress blues; Chief Conroy and Mayor Harris alongside the Director of the FBI; a series of speakers talking about heroic sacrifices. . .
No one said the words 'screw up.'
The first time he saw the funeral, televised live on CNN, all he could think of was that no one had bothered to tell him that they were burying his brother, and that he wasn't there. Halfway in, the nurses realized what was on TV and came in and shut it off. He protested, yelling until he was sedated. . .
However, the following week gave him ample opportunity to see the images of the funeral again and again. By the day of his release he had seen his sister-in-law take the flag from Raphael's coffin about twenty-five times on seven different networks.
The last day, he watched it again, as part of a special on the whole Daedalus disaster. The tube was out of his nose, he had a fresh cast on his arm, and he was more lucid than he had been through most of his stay. Which meant that there was little reprieve from the numb sense of loss he felt, staring at the screen, at a funeral they didn't let him attend.
He watched the camera pan across the first row of the mourners. Next to Monica, Raphael's widow, stood Alexander Lloyd, the Attorney General of the United States. He was one of a half-dozen white faces in the crowd other than Conroy, and he looked very uncomfortable. Gideon thought he should look uncomfortable. He was probably there to offer some gesture of apology, but Gideon thought his presence there was in horrid taste. It gave the appearance of being some cynical attempt to reclaim the political capital Lloyd had lost when his agents shot up Rafe.
Gideon was glad that Lloyd never got up to speak. He could tell Lloyd's presence was a strain on most of the attendees. Gideon noticed that the Director of the Bureau, stood far away from Lloyd, and carefully avoided referring to him, or the Secret Service, during his short eulogy.
'Damn.' Gideon whispered.
As he watched the funeral, the door to his room opened.
Gideon turned, expecting to see an orderly with a wheelchair ready to take him down to a waiting taxi.
Instead, he saw Monica, his sister-in-law. He felt his breath catch and his hand shook the remote as he tried to shut off the TV. The remote tumbled out of his hand and clattered to the wall, dangling on its cord.
Monica stood there looking at him, her expression set into a hard mask as the TV continued with Mayor Harris' speech, '—a man who paid the ultimate sacrifice in the service of his fellow man—'
'Oh, God,' Gideon said after a moment, trying to gather his wits about him. 'I'm sorry.' The words sounded so weak and lame as they fell out of his mouth. He wanted to say that he felt the loss, too, that he mourned for his brother as she did for her husband, but he couldn't bring himself to say it—
'You're sorry?' she said. She almost spit the words. 'Is that it, Gideon? You're sorry?'
Gideon was at a loss. He felt himself tied up in a knot of guilt and grief that kept his voice from working right. 'I wish I could do something.'
'Like what?' Monica asked softly. She looked around the room. Her face was angry, ready to tear into him, but her eyes were shiny with grief. She walked to a pile of cards and flowers that the staff had been piling on a dresser opposite the door.
Gideon watched her, and felt a need to justify himself. 'From people on the force, the rest is just from people who saw me on the news.'
Monica stood with her back to him. Her shoulders started shaking.
'Are you all right?' Gideon asked her.
'How dare you,' Monica whispered.
Gideon sat up, but couldn't move any closer because of the cast on his leg.
'How dare you survive.' She spoke so low that Gideon didn't know if he was meant to hear the words. Even so, he could feel them rip a hole inside him. What could he do? She was right. It was his fault. He was the one who should have died.
Monica turned around, and the hardness was back in her face, and her eyes were drier. 'I came here because I knew Rafe loved you, and I know he would want—more than anything in the world—for me to forgive you—'
'You don't have to—'
'Let me get through this,' she spoke through clenched teeth, harshly enough that Gideon winced. 'I came here because it's what Rafe would want. It was a mistake. I'm not that strong.' Her hands balled up into fists, and she pounded them at her sides as she paced in front of the bed.
'I look at you, and I don't see Rafe's little brother. I see the man who took my husband away.'
Gideon looked down. He could feel the pulse in his neck, and acid burned in his stomach.
'Rafe would have hated this—that I can't forgive you—but I can't help but see that as your fault too.'
'Maybe we should talk about—'
'Talk? Talk about what? How you lured Rafe here from a safe desk job, and led him in front of a firing squad?' Monica shook her head. 'If you want to talk, talk to the vultures outside. It was a mistake for me to come here.'
She forced her way past a cop pushing an empty wheelchair into the room. The guy looked over his shoulder at Monica leaving, then rolled the chair into the room. 'Your ride home's here, Detective Malcolm.'
Vultures? Gideon thought.
They wheeled him out to a waiting patrol car. He was wearing sweats the hospital provided, and he had a pair of crutches propped between his knees.
They had barely gotten him out of the door, when he was confronted with a sea of faces. Microphones and lenses aimed at Gideon as an officer forced a path through the throng. An orderly pushed his wheelchair after the cop, toward the patrol car.
The journey between the doors and the waiting car was only a matter of yards, but with the reporters in their way,. the passage seemed interminable. All of them shouted questions, talking over each other, not even leaving space for breath between them, much less an answer.
'Can you confirm that there's a wrongful death suit being filed against the Treasury Department?'
'Are you going to testify that the Secret Service fired first?'
'The President has promised 'a full investigation,' do you have any comments?'
'Do you intend to continue working for the D.C. Police Department?'
'Do you think there should be a criminal investigation of the agents involved?'
It was worse when they actually reached the car, and Gideon had to maneuver out of the chair and into the passenger seat. He felt vulnerable and under attack. He held his head down and tried not to listen. He stared at the progress of his feet across the asphalt. He pushed himself along with the crutches, the reporters just barely staying out of his way.
'How do you feel about your brother's death?'
