Bleeding Out

'Nah. It'd be too weird for both of us. How 'bout you?'

'Hadn't even thought about it.'

'You wanna do something together? I could come over Christmas Eve and beat your ass at gin.'

'Sure,' Frank said without enthusiasm.

'Does that sound good?'

'Yeah. That'd be great.'

Kennedy scrutinized Frank. 'Are you sure you're alright? You look shitty.'

'Thanks. I'm fine,' Frank answered quietly.

'You don't look fine.'

'Just tired.'

'Alright. I'll get out of your hair. I'll talk to you later, okay?'

Frank nodded, opening the door. She mustered the strength to call after Kennedy, 'Be careful.'

Kennedy flashed a grin, answering, 'Yes, mother!'

In-line skates surrounded Frank, in every color known to man and then some. She looked for a salesclerk, frowning that they were all busy. She was tired and ready to go home, even if it was only to coax sleep and battle nightmares. But it was December 23rd and last-minute shoppers like herself were swirling around like piranhas. She finally clamped a firm hand on a kid who'd just left a customer and asked what was the best brand of skates.

'Well, that depends on a lot of things,' he said sulkily, trying to turn away.

'Like what,' Frank said, stepping in his way.

'Like who's using them, how they use them. Lots of things.'

'A young woman who goes up and down the street in them, jumps curbs,' Frank shrugged.

'She's using them for recreation?' the kid said patronizingly.

'Yeah. She's not jumping off rooftops or gliding down banisters on them. I guess that's recreational use instead of homicidal use.'

'K-2,' the kid spat, with an evil glare.

'You carry them?'

'Over there,' he pointed.

Picking up one of the pairs the punk had indicated, she stopped another clerk passing her.

'Hey. Are these good skates?'

'Yeah, they are,' he said eagerly.

'They'd be a good present for a recreational skater?'

'Wa-ay.'

'Can you ring these up for me?'

'Sure. I just gotta help that lady over there, then I'll be with you.'

'Great.'

Frank leaned against the counter by the cash register, waiting patiently. She hoped Kennedy would like the skates. Frank had overheard her talking to Noah about the pair she had, how they were falling apart. These were pricey, but Frank wanted the best. And besides, if Kennedy didn't like them she could always bring them back.

The kid bounced up to her and took the skates.

'For your kid?' he asked.

Frank smiled faintly, amused that she could really be mistaken for someone's mother.

'No. Just a friend.'

'Must be a pretty good friend.'

Frank hadn't thought about that, but decided she was.

After the clerk wrapped the skates, Frank headed home. She made herself go through her exercise routine thinking it might perk her up. It exhausted her, though, and she was tempted to quit. She drove herself on anyway. When it was over she opened a beer, but it didn't taste good, so she let it sit while she took a shower. Then she decided she should eat something, but nothing appealed to her. Contemplating the refrigerator's holdings, she wondered what was the matter with her. She decided she just needed some sleep, that things must be catching up to her.

Over the last week or so—actually, since Delamore's bust— Frank had noticed she wasn't very hungry. Nor was she sleeping. The exercise she usually looked forward to had become a trial, and that puzzled her. She'd blamed the lack of energy on the lack of sleep. Always sparse at best, it had become even more sporadic, caught in snatches between dreams and alarm clocks. She longed for it at the same time she was afraid of the terrors it brought: bloody, mangled visions of Tunnel exploding, or Maggie and sometimes Kennedy bleeding and staggering toward her, or them or herself or Cassie Nichols tied against Clancey's lounge chair. She'd wake herself with her own sounds and turn the lights on, then pace and drink until the adrenaline subsided.

Letting the beer drain into the sink, Frank grabbed a handful of cashews and poured a small tumbler of Scotch. Dinner of Champions, she noted humorlessly, sitting on the couch with the remote. She'd found waking up in front of the TV wasn't as frightening as waking up in the den or in her bedroom. Resigned to the long night, she munched the nuts for nutrition's sake, finding no joy in them nor the hot liquid that chased them.

She was surprised when the alarm went off. The last thing she remembered was Jay Leno interviewing a leggy young actress Frank didn't recognize. She showered, grateful for the four hours of sleep she'd had. Rolling down the quiet highway, she thought about all the cases the ninety-third had outstanding. There was so much work to do and not enough hours in a day. A homicide cop in South Central was like Sisyphus in Tartarus: always rolling the rock to the top of the hill just to have it come crashing down again. Frank sighed, turning on some trashy talk radio to distract her from the weight in her chest. Sliding into a parking space she remembered Kennedy was coming over tonight. The thought brought no spark of pleasure, merely a feeling of obligation.

Upstairs, Gough was making coffee. As she passed him she grunted, 'Morning.'

He grunted in reply, going back to the newspaper spread out on his desk. Frank neatly hung up her jacket, then stared at the pile of papers on her desk. She'd probably not get to any of it today, either. She had a meeting with Foubarelle at 7:30 followed by a ride to the sheriff's office where she and Nookey had to talk two guys from OSS about a couple of bangers suspected in a double homicide Nookey had caught last week. After that there was a lieutenants' meeting at noon. Her own people would weave in and out of much of the remaining time.

And she was right. At 1:00 p.m. she was still in the lieutenants' meeting. Rubbing a hand across her forehead she thought, God, I wish I were home. She thought about Clancey Delamore, how she'd circled around the dining room table before she knew who he was, trying to uncover him and become him, to flush him out. She realized she missed him, missed losing herself in the challenge of finding him.

She wondered grimly if maybe Clay was right. Maybe all she had in her life were dead people. And Kennedy, who was very much alive. Frank thought about calling her and telling her she was sick. The idea of spending an evening with Kennedy suddenly seemed draining. Frank didn't know where she could find the energy for it. But she knew Kennedy would be disappointed, and somehow that penetrated Frank's funk.

While Keating in Vice went off about needing more detectives, Frank tried to convince herself that the night would be fun, or at least different. After all, when Kennedy wasn't pissing her off, she had a way of making Frank laugh. Determined to have a good time for Kennedy's sake, she concentrated stoically on the meeting.

Frank shared some leads that had been generated from the meeting when she got back to the office. Her phone rang and she waved her detectives out when she heard Kennedy's hello. 'Hey,' she greeted quietly.

'Hey, yourself,' responded the chipper voice on the other end. 'Do you know you have never called me? Not once.'

'Why don't you hang up. I'll call you back.'

'Why do you suppose that is?'

'I'm sure I couldn't tell you.'

'So how late are you working?'

Frank glanced at the clock. 'I'm done.'

'What? It's not even two yet. Since when have you ever left the office before quitting time?'