Bleeding Out

'I don't think so.'

'Oh, yeah? Who's gonna stop me?' Kennedy challenged.

Frank leaned on her knuckles at the foot of Kennedy's bed. She couldn't have imagined just a few days ago that the younger woman's cheekiness would have ever pleased her. But then there was a lot she couldn't have imagined a few days ago.

Except for brief trips home and to headquarters, Frank had spent most of her time with Kennedy. They talked a lot, alternating between friendly sparring and painfully serious discussion. Kennedy was able to switch gears rapidly and easily, often leaving Frank in the dust; one minute Kennedy made her laugh and the next she felt like she'd been skewered through the heart. Keeping up with her was demanding, but Frank was game. She considered it part of her reparations to Kennedy. Though in truth, she actually enjoyed the young woman's company.

'Who's going to stop you?' Frank repeated, considering what she was about to say, 'I'm going to stop you. You're coming home with me.'

For once, Kennedy was the one floundering, and she said, 'I don't get it.'

'Simple. You're going to stay with me until you're okay.'

'Well, I'll be dipped in shit and covered with peanuts,' Kennedy murmured.

'Hmm. Nice,' Frank said sarcastically, flipping through a surfing magazine.

'I don't know if this is such a good idea.'

'Why's that?'

Kennedy lifted her good shoulder, glancing out the window for an answer.

'I don't need a babysitter. I can take care of myself.'

Frank was getting used to Kennedy's independent streak and agreed, 'Yeah, you can. But it'd be better if you took it real easy for a while. So I'm going to take you home and be your slave-girl. Can't ditch your slave-girl just like that,' Frank said, snapping her fingers.

Kennedy just plucked at her sheet. Frank reluctantly asked, 'What's the matter, sport?'

'I feel like such a geek, like I'm a fuckin' albatross around everyone's neck.'

'You're not an albatross,' Frank replied awkwardly, touched by Kennedy's candor. She hesitated, then said, 'I want you to come home with me. It's the very least I can do for you.'

'You don't have to do anything for me, Frank. I remember you apologized right after I came out of the anesthesia, and at the time I remember thinking, That's so stupid. If anybody should have been apologizing it was me, for having been such an idiot in the first place.'

Frank sat on the edge of the bed.

'Hey. We've been over this. I was the first one in, remember? I should have seen him. I didn't. You're not to blame here, Kennedy. Now we've all got our 20/20 hindsight, and we'd all do it differently, but we didn't know then. There's nobody to blame,' Frank lied, convinced she could have prevented the whole affair.

'So we're going to baby you for the next couple of days, get you back to 100 percent, and then throw you out in the trenches again. Get you on that surfboard. Okay?'

''Kay.'

Kennedy smiled a little, then added, 'But you know you don't have to do this.'

'Jesus Christ!' Frank blew out in a long breath.

'Frank, really I—'

'I don't want to hear it.' Frank stood, holding up her hands. 'I'm going downtown. I've got to see the shrink in twenty minutes. He's gonna be a picnic after you, sport.'

As Frank reached the door Kennedy called, 'Frank?'

'What?'

'Thanks.'

Her back to Kennedy, Frank smiled.

'No sweat.'

Kennedy had been right. The psychologist Frank was required to see after she'd been shot got nothing from her. Later on, when Mag was killed, she hadn't been forced to see anybody. Instead, Frank had spent a lot of nights with the Jantzens. Long after Tracey had gone to bed, Noah and Frank would sit out on the patio, watching the barbecue coals die. He tried to get her to talk, but they shared more silence than words. He'd nurse a couple drinks, Frank a bottle, and eventually she'd pass out in the lounge chair.

'Hello, Frank.'

Richard Clay stepped out of his office, interrupting Frank's thoughts. He held out his hand.

'It's good to see you again. I wish it were under more auspicious circumstances.'

'Hello, Dick,' she said smoothly, returning the shake. She perched on the edge of a chair in front of Clay's desk while he took the one beside it. Frank recognized the move, she did it all the time. Get close to your suspect. Make her nervous. Invade her body space.

'How's your serial case coming along?'

'Not mine anymore. RHD's got it.'

'Hmm. Is that a relief or a disappointment?'

Frank hated this touchy-feely shit, hated it like the plague, but she knew she had to go along with it for Clay to sign off on her ROD. She felt his quiet appraisal and wondered vaguely if he saw what she wanted him to or something else. Frank was a detective. She was a master at projecting whatever attitude was needed. Today called for casual yet earnest cooperation.

'Guess I'd have to say disappointing.'

'And how does being relieved of duty feel?'

'It's probably good for me. I haven't taken a vacation in years.'

Clay was peering at her over his bifocals.

'Does it feel good?'

Frank considered for a moment, wondering how high Clay's bullshit barometer went. As she recalled, it was pretty sensitive.

'I've felt better.'

He smiled softly. 'I'll take it that's a 'no'.'

She shrugged.

'Tell me about the shooting.'

Clay remained silent while Frank laid out the mechanics of the story. When she'd finished he asked, 'How did you feel going in?'

'The usual. Excited. Tense. Pumped.'

'And in the hallway right before Detective Kennedy was seized?'

'Same. Probably a little more concerned. We didn't know where this guy was, but he was in there somewhere with us.'

'Were you afraid?'

'Didn't have time to be. I suppose I was. It's hard to remember,' she lied.

'How about when you were in the bathroom and heard the suspect screaming at your detectives? How did that make you feel?'

Frank remembered the lurch her stomach had made and the nauseating panic, then the icy calmness that took over, the complete detachment.

'I felt like a machine. My vision and hearing were acute. I could smell the towels on the door. They'd been damp for a couple of days. There were black and brown cracks in the linoleum. It was mustard colored, had some sort of a square geometric pattern. I was on autopilot.'

'Were you scared then?'

'I guess. I don't remember.'

'When you shot the suspect, what was going through your head?'

'Not being seen. Being 100 percent accurate. No room for error.'

'It must have been tremendous pressure.'

Frank shrugged. 'I suppose. You don't think about it at the time, though.'

Frank was trying to lead the conversation and hoped he'd ask when did she think about it. But Clay had been doing his job for a long time. He bowled her over by asking, 'Tell me how you felt kneeling over Detective Kennedy