Bleeding Out

while she was dying on you.'

Frank wasn't expecting that one. Clay's vivid description forced the scene into her mind, followed by Mag on the dirty liquor store floor. Frank sat perfectly still. Her eyes narrowed and focused intently on Clay's, warning him not to continue. Clay steadily maintained his gaze. They both knew he'd set the hook. Now she'd either fight it or give into it. He was allowing her time to figure it out. When she spoke it was almost in a whisper, as if sound might shatter her self-control.

'I know I'm supposed to talk about this. I have no intention of doing so. I respect your time and I don't want to waste it.'

Clay took off his glasses and thoughtfully polished them with a handkerchief. He took some time doing it, carefully rubbing each lens, redoing them, examining them for smudges. He refolded the handkerchief and patted it back into his pocket. Frank knew he was buying time. Slowly, using both hands, he slid the glasses back onto his nose, adjusting then until he'd found just the right spot. Adopting Frank's casual posture, he leaned halfway out of the chair and rested his forearms on his thighs, fingers clasped between his knees.

'You know I have to sign an evaluation saying you're capable of performing your job.'

'I am capable of performing my job.'

She spoke evenly, very quietly.

'Are you sure about that?'

'Very.'

Silence stretched between them until Clay said, 'Unfortunately, I think you're right. I think you'll be just fine on the street. To be honest, it's what you do when you're not working that worries me.'

Frank knew what he meant, that sometimes work was the only thing a cop had and when the job was gone there was nothing left but bullets or bottles. She offered him nothing.

'Your consult form says you're single.'

'That's right.'

'Do you date?'

'Are you asking me out?'

Clay smiled. 'Do you?'

'No.'

'How come?'

'Too busy.'

'Would you like to date?'

Frank and Clay were head to head, eyes locked. She hesitated before answering no, and he immediately asked her why.

'Too busy,' she repeated with a shrug.

'Doing what?' he pressed.

Frank sighed, conveying a supreme indifference to the barrage of questions.

'I don't know. Working, I guess.'

'What do you do when you're not working?

'Sleep. Eat. Exercise. Read the paper, watch the news, football.'

Clay sat back, asking what team she liked.

'Chiefs look good. And just to show I have a heart, Warren Moon makes the Seahawks a sentimental favorite.'

Clay smiled again, like an indulgent grandfather. 'You wrote down that you drink moderately. What's moderate to you?'

'I don't know. Depends on the day.'

'Do you drink more on bad days?'

'I suppose.'

Frank sat back, stretching her legs all the way out, crossing arms and ankles.

'What's an average day's consumption?'

'Two, three beers. Scotch sometimes, maybe wine if I have dinner.'

'Do you ever have nightmares?'

Frank's nonchalant expression wavered for an instant, but then she said stoically, 'It's a package deal. You get a pension, medical, and nightmares for the rest of your life.'

'Are they bad ones?'

'Is any nightmare good?'

Clay smiled at his own question, neatly laying the trap. 'Do you ever wake up crying?'

The flexed jaw muscle was Clay's answer. He shifted his attention to a thread on his slacks. 'I don't suppose you'd tell me what they're about.'

He looked back up and searched her cobalt eyes, waiting. Finally he sighed loudly. 'Lieutenant, you seem like an intelligent person. I have to admit, I admire your investigative skills and I've enjoyed it the few times we've worked together, but frankly, I sure as shit wouldn't want to be living in your shoes right now. I'd say you're on the edge of a hard place and I'm offering you a hand— no strings attached. I can help you, Frank, but only if you'll let me.'

Their eyes dueled while Frank considered Clay's offer. She respected him, he seemed like a straight-up guy, but she just couldn't tell him everything. What she'd endured lately with Kennedy and Noah was bad enough. She wasn't willing to go any further. Not for a stranger. Clay finally realized that.

'Fine. You're right. You are wasting my time.'

He stood, reseating himself behind the desk. 'You know my number and you know where I am.'

Frank hadn't expected the abrupt dismissal. She got up and walked to the door, then paused, her hand on the knob. Clay had opened a folder and was sorting through its contents.

'Are you going to sign off on me?' she asked.

Without lifting his head, Clay answered, 'Of course I am. Your job's all you have in the world.'

Sometimes he'd go out and find a whore before he had to be at work, or sometimes he'd cruise on the way home. He couldn't do it very often. It cost a lot for what he wanted, and his mother always noticed the missing money. After a while he gave it up and just watched the whores, thinking about what he'd like to do to them. He'd sit alone in the car, wishing his dad were with him, missing him.

23

Frank tried to help Kennedy into the Honda after she was wheeled out of the hospital. Kennedy slapped her hand away, complaining she hadn't forgotten how to walk.

'Geez Louise,' she drawled, 'the way ya'll are fussin' over me you'd think I was a double amputee.'

Watching Kennedy get in on her own, Frank commented, 'Too bad Tunnel cut your carotid and not your vocal cords.'

They went by Kennedy's apartment to pick up some clothes. Frank looked around while the younger woman packed. The place obviously came furnished in used Sears Roebuck. The carpet was the standard chocolate shag, and though worn, it was clean. The kitchen was cramped but tidy. There were some dishes in the sink, and Frank quickly washed them.

Kennedy emerged from the bedroom with a suitcase. When Frank offered to help, Kennedy waved her away. Frank waited against the door, surveying the spartan surroundings. No plants, no books, no pictures. A stereo system and lots of CDs dominated the room, as did a pile of sports equipment. Two surfboards and a mountain bike were propped against the wall. A neat pile of newspapers sat on one end of the couch.

'Okay. That's it.'

Frank tugged at the suitcase, reminding Kennedy she was supposed to be taking it easy.

'Oh yeah, it's really heavy.'

'That's not the point. Easy is easy. You're lucky I let you walk up here.'

'Oh, you're so butch,' Kennedy teased.

Frank headed down the balcony steps while Kennedy locked up. By the time Kennedy got to the car, she was pale.

'You alright?'

'Yeah. I just got a little dizzy.'