Hot summer sun
and the pavement is burning
I sit around
Trying to smile
but the air is so heavy and dry"Cruel Summer" - Bananarama
Only eight and already the city was sweltering. Lou, hurrying to meet Nan for the breakfast pick-up, felt her movements grow sluggish and tired.
For the hundredth time, Lou noticed how tired she looked, how dark the circles under her eyes had become. It was getting harder and harder to pass them off as merely the effects of not sleeping well. Lou regarded herself with a critical eye and sighed. Limp hair, dark eyes, drooping mouth, grey pallor; she was hardly going to be the life of the party any time soon. And my clothes are getting tighter, she noted with a despondent chuckle.
Dr Ryan had given her the results a week ago and she still hadn't found the nerve to break the news to Kid. She hadn't even tried. There hadn't seemed to be an opportunity yet. They were both so busy, and Kid was so intent on catching up with Nan, Ike, and Noah that even when they weren't busy she hardly saw him. But deep in her heart, Lou knew these were just excuses. Kid was normally very attentive, and if she had asked him to set aside time for her, he would have been happy to do so. The truth was she was beside herself with worry and uncertainty, and she couldn't fathom what it would be like to give him the news.
A baby. We're going to have a baby. No matter how many times she told herself that, it never quite sunk in. Her morning sickness and burgeoning belly seemed to be something happening to her, not something happening because of her. She still couldn't quite grasp the idea that there was a little, tiny human being forming inside of her. It just didn't seem real.
Lou struggled with the buttons on her shirt for a moment, sucking her breath in, but the stupid things wouldn't meet in the middle over her suddenly unmanageable cleavage. She sighed and tore the shirt off despairingly, before tossing it aside and pulling on a t-shirt instead. It was an old shirt, faded and far too big, but it would have to do. She was late already.
Nan was waiting at the deli counter when Lou arrived, leaning up against the glass case enclosing the meat selection, her expression listless. She spotted Lou immediately and waved, stifling a yawn.
"You look tired," Lou told Nan, glad to be concerned about someone else for a moment.
Nan made a face. "That means 'you look old.'"
Lou laughed. "Sorry I'm late. One of those nothing to wear days."
"Ugh. Welcome to my world," commiserated Nan. Then she gestured to a nearby table. "I already placed the orders; it'll be about fifteen minutes."
Sinking gratefully into a chair, Lou sighed with relief. Nan slid into the seat opposite, and Lou took a moment to study her. It suddenly occurred to her, as she watched Nan rest her chin in her palms, that Nan wasn't looking all that well either. She had never had much colouring to begin with, but under the harsh fluorescent lights of the deli, her complexion seemed an almost electric white, and her blue eyes were ringed with dark circles similar to Lou's own.
Lou's forehead wrinkled in concern. "Nan, you don't look so good. Really. Are you sure you're okay?"
"I can't seem to shake this jetlag," Nan said, "or something. I don't know. I'm just so tired all the time, and my appetite's no good, and I haven't felt like myself in ages. Some days are worse than others." She managed a credible smile. "I'll be all right."
Suddenly Lou's mind began to race. She couldn't stop staring at Nan, an insane thought occurring to her as she did. Wouldn't it be crazy if…?
"Nan? Do you think you might be pregnant?"
That woke her up. Nan sat up abruptly, her posture ramrod straight, and she gazed at Lou with big, disbelieving eyes. Her voice was a squeak. "Pregnant? God, no! Why would I be pregnant?"
It was a testament to how much she was thrown off by Lou's question, and to Lou's own state of mind, that neither of them laughed at that.
"Well, you know… It sounds like you have some of the symptoms, and I'm assuming it's possible…" Lou trailed off uncertainly.
"No, no, Jimmy and I are very careful, Lou." Nan slapped her hand on the table for emphasis. "Very careful."
Lou bristled, though she knew Nan was in no way implying that Lou herself hadn't been. "Well, there's careful and then there's careful. Anything can happen." She tried to shrug nonchalantly. "I was just wondering."
"No," said Nan. And again, even more insistently, "No." She tightened her mouth, shaking her head. But then, softly, so softly Lou almost didn't hear her, "Surely not."
Lou said nothing. She understood, perhaps better than anyone, the thoughts running through Nan's mind right now, the sinking realisation of the possibility, the shock, the desperate assertion that it must be otherwise.
Suddenly Lou found herself confiding in the one woman she was so sure she couldn't. "Nan…I'm pregnant." The moment the words finally left her lips, Louise breathed a deep sigh of relief. She felt an enormous weight had been lifted from her shoulders, and she looked to Nan to gauge her reaction.
Nan, quite simply, looked stunned. Even more stunned than she had been by Lou's question, if that was possible. She had paused when Lou began to speak, and now sat frozen, gaping at her. "Pregnant?"
"Yes," Lou said simply. "I'm about eight weeks along now."
"Well, that's…wow, that's, um…"
"A surprise?" offered Lou.
With a sheepish smile, Nan said, "But it's a good thing, right? Surely it's a good thing."
"I--I don't really know."
"It is. It's lovely. Congratulations, Lou." Nan's voice was warm and earnest; Lou was surprised how much. She seemed to have recovered from the shock of Lou's implication, and her confession as well. "You and Kid having a baby--oh that's marvellous, it really is." Then she broke off and asked slowly, "How long have you known?"
"A little over a week now. My doctor confirmed it."
"And you haven't told Kid." It wasn't a question.
"No," agreed Lou, and hoped she didn't sound as guilty as she felt. She didn't succeed.
"But you will."
"It would be hard to keep it from him for very long."
"Of course," Nan grinned. She began to poke at the tabletop with one long, slender finger. "Only why haven't you done it yet?"
A dozen excuses rushed to Lou's tongue--I've been so tired; we're so busy; I needed to be sure. But after a moment she bit them back. "I don't know," she said, hating the truth.
The two women sat in silence for a long moment. Nan gazed down at the tabletop and wished she knew what to say in the face of Lou's obvious discomfort and confusion. Nan wasn't sure she was entirely comfortable herself with Lou's confession; she was very fond of her, of course, but after more than ten years of friendship, she had the vaguely unsettling feeling that she was somehow being disloyal to Kid. It didn't seem right to know such a personal and hugely important thing about his life before he did.
As if reading her thoughts, Lou said hastily, "You won't tell Kid, will you? I know he's your friend, but--"
"You're my friend, too," Nan said.
Lou tried to smile. She and Nan had always gotten along very well, but there was a slight distance between them, probably attributable to Nan's history with Kid, and Lou's with Jimmy. Suddenly Lou realised that if the situation were reversed-if it were Nan asking her to keep something this important from Jimmy-she would feel uncomfortable too.
"It's only for a little while longer," she added when the silence grew. "Just until I figure out how to tell him." Please let me figure out how to tell him, she thought.
Nan nodded. "No, of course I won't tell him. It's not something he should hear from me anyway. But Lou--why is it so difficult? I mean, Kid adores you. He'd adore a baby. I don't see why--" she broke off, seeing Lou's stricken expression. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry, Lou, it's none of my business."
"No, it's okay, really. You're Kid's best friend. You have a right to know."
"I'm not Kid's best friend," protested Nan.
"Nan." Lou put up a hand to stop the onslaught of words. "You are."
Nan gave another slight nod, this time of resignation. "Yes, I suppose it's true--and you're Jimmy's."
"Yeah," Lou agreed, smiling almost to herself.
There was the ding of a small bell, and then a man's booming voice: "Number forty-two, your order is ready."
"That's us," Nan said, glad of the distraction. "I hope you're hungry; I've ordered a ton of food."
"I'm not actually," Lou said. "Isn't that funny? I thought pregnant women were supposed to be ravenous all the time."
Nan snickered.
"I do have all the other fun symptoms though--headaches, nausea, dizziness. I'm tired all the time, I can't seem to stop needing the restroom--"
"I had noticed that, actually. I was about to recommend you cut back on the coffee."
Lou laughed and shook her head. "I can't drink coffee; it's not good for the baby."
The word 'baby' seemed to hang heavily in the air between them, and they both fell awkwardly silent. Nan paid for the food and carried the sacks from the counter. Watching her, Lou could see that she was contemplating something. Possibly she was wondering how she could keep something like this from Kid. Possibly she was resenting Lou for putting her in such a position.
But no. "Lou?" Nan asked hesitantly.
Lou, taking the keys from Nan's rental car from her, paused at the driver's side door. She looked at Nan expectantly.
There was silence from Nan, and for a moment Lou thought she wasn't going to answer. She looked pale; pale and frightened.
"Do you think I could have the name of your doctor?"
So far New York was dead boring. As boring as London, and Paul would never have thought such a thing was possible. New York was supposed to be fantastic, the most exciting city in the world; his mates had been eaten up with jealousy when they'd heard where he'd be spending his summer.
They wouldn't be so jealous if they could see him now, Paul thought resentfully. Stuck in a cramped apartment with no good food, no cable, no money, and no freedom. Caged like an animal until Nan and Jimmy came home, which was rarely before dark. He knew he had been sent here as a punishment, but he had never expected Nan and Jimmy to punish him quite so thoroughly.
He'd been stuck with no money and no freedom before, but that had been in London, familiar territory. He'd always managed a way around whatever Granddad and Uncle Jamie had deprived him of. He didn't need money when he had generous mates and light fingers. And he didn't need permission when freedom was just an open window and a tube ride away.
But this was New York, and though he would never admit it to anyone, not Nan, not Jimmy, and especially not his mates, Paulie was scared. It was pathetic, he knew, but it was a strange city, and he was completely out of his depth here.
He'd heard people, Jimmy included, say that New York and London were a lot alike, but so far he couldn't see it, although his comings-and-goings had been admittedly restricted so far. New York seemed brighter and more colourful, the pace far more hectic, almost frenzied. He didn't know anybody, he didn't know where he was, where he could go, or how he could get there.
And so he was stuck. It was, so far, quite an effective punishment, and Paulie found himself regretting some of the stuff he'd put Granddad and Uncle Jamie through. But only some of it. The rest of it they'd deserved. Just like his mum and dad deserved it, wherever they were these days.
Or at least that's what Paul told himself.
At first he had tried to amuse himself writing emails to Sara, but she didn't answer quickly enough, and after three days with no reply, he'd sent her a scathing email accusing her of things he didn't actually believe she was doing, and she'd responded in kind, and subsequently, they weren't speaking. He wasn't sure if they were broken up--Justin and Trevor said Sara wasn't saying--but he'd decided to give her some time to cool off.
He'd tried snooping through Nan's and Jimmy's things, but had found nothing more intriguing than an empty bottle of the pain pills Nan needed for her leg, and a letter she had begun to Granddad detailing Paulie's behaviour and attitude. He found nothing remotely interesting or scandalous. Paul hated to think Nan and Jimmy were that dull, and preferred instead to think they were just clever enough to know he'd snoop, and so were hiding all the good stuff.
He'd tried watching TV, but the reception in Nan and Jimmy's building was terrible, and the daytime television not worth the trouble.
So far the most exciting thing he'd done was dye his hair a ferocious orange, courtesy of a bottle of dye he'd swiped from the shop down the corner. It looked particularly interesting with the splotches of the old green popping up in odd places. Nan said he looked like a pumpkin and Jimmy said he looked like a carrot, but Paulie chose to ignore them both.
And today, finally, Paulie decided that he'd had enough. He was bored out of his skull, and he'd only been here a week. At this rate, he'd wither to nothingness before he got home to London. Moreover, he couldn't fathom what would happen if word got out that Paulie Kenworthy had been to the coolest city in the world and hadn't so much as left his cousin's apartment. He'd never be able to hold his head up again.
Miracle of miracles, Nan had seen fit to leave him a key, so his way was clear. Paul dressed in what he thought of as his coolest, blending-in-as-an-American clothes, dashed off a note (Nan--Taken time off for good behaviour. Don't sound the alarm, I'll be back by dark), and left.
It felt good just being out, just exploring, being on his own. Paulie walked and walked, taking careful note of his surroundings and landmarks, hoping it was enough to find his way home, particularly since he realised he didn't have a mobile, or Nan's number at the station, or Nan's number at the apartment for that matter.
He walked for half an hour, and by that time he was sweating good and proper. He spotted a tiny park with what looked like good shade, and a street vendor nearby selling cans of soda. With careful, not overly-done motions, Paul strode by the vendor, who was busy with the lunchtime crowd, swiped a can of soda from his kiosk, and breezed on into the park.
He'd been sitting on a well-shaded bench for several minutes, and the soda was nearly gone, when someone sat next to him.
It was a bloke about his own age, with floppy hair and freaky, clear blue eyes. Paul glanced at him with practiced disinterest, then glanced away.
"Hey," said the boy.
Paulie had heard Americans were big on that phoney sort of over-friendliness that he hated, but the boy's "Hey" had sounded totally unconcerned, like he couldn't care whether or not Paulie responded. Paulie liked that.
"Hey," he replied.
"Thirsty, huh?" said the boy, nodding at the soda can in Paul's hand.
Paul's adrenaline sped up. Had the boy seen him swipe the soda? Could you go to jail for stealing a can of soda? He wished fervently that he'd asked Jimmy more about American laws when he'd had the chance. He was about to protest that he had twenty English pounds on him, but no idea where to exchange them, and his cousin was a police officer who could vouch for him, but the boy went on.
"I saw you," he said, in that same ambivalent voice. He and Paul were looking at each other now. "That was pretty smooth."
Releasing a breath he didn't know he'd been holding, Paulie relaxed a little. "I do all right," he said.
"You're not from around here."
"Worked that out all by yourself, did you?"
The boy was unfazed. "This your first time in New York?"
"So what if it is?"
The boy shrugged. "You could be useful," he said.
"Useful?" Paul asked, his brow furrowing in a way that unknowingly made him resemble his cousin greatly. "What are you playing at?"
"I was just wondering. I thought maybe you were bored. If you're bored, maybe you could help me out." He glanced pointedly at the can before looking at Paul again.
"You want me to swipe a can of soda for you? Is that bit of hardcore criminal activity beyond you?" sneered Paul.
"It's beneath me. It's beneath you. Maybe we can help each other out. What's your name?"
"Paul," Paul replied, before he thought better of it. The bloke was weird, no question, but he was also the first interesting thing that had happened to him in ages. Paul found he was fascinated, despite himself.
"You got anyplace you need to be?"
Paul shook his head, bemused.
"Want to come with me?" The boy was standing before Paulie had even answered. He began to walk away, as if certain that Paul would follow him.
To his own consternation, Paul found that he couldn't help himself from complying. "Wait," he called after him. "What's your name?"
The boy glanced at him with the same feigned disinterest that Paul had thrown his way earlier. "I'm Jesse," he said.
"There must be some kind of way outta here,"
said the joker to the thief
There's too much confusion,
I can't get no relief"
"All Along the Watchtower" -- Jimi Hendrix
The fourth fire came just when everyone was beginning to relax. It had been two weeks since the fire at Senator Grandison's mansion, and although the Senator's confession had been turned over to the FBI, and every newspaper in the city featured the story prominently on each day's front page, there had been no new developments in the case. So far the NYPD and the FBI had kept a tight lid on things, and no one outside of the police force knew that the fire at the senator's home was in any way connected with the two restaurants that had been previously burned to the ground.
It had been a relatively quiet two weeks. Besides which, it was the Fourth of July weekend, and the officers were looking forward to a little fun and frivolity: A barbeque, maybe a Yankees game, definitely some beer, and fireworks wherever they could find them.
The holiday weekend did start with a bang, but it wasn't quite the fireworks anyone had anticipated. A fire, early Friday morning, in Queens. Nothing remarkable at first, but the Arson squad was on the alert, and it was reported to the STF as soon as the results were confirmed.
All the signs, it turned out, were there: Red candle wax. Gunpowder. No one on the premises. No fire or burglar alarms triggered. But this time around, the STF knew what they were looking for.
Ike found it almost immediately.
"Regency Warehouse," he told Rosemary, handing her the computer printout. "They're contracted out to the swankier shops that don't want their goods made overseas. Been in business since 1978. Sole proprietor--Elizabeth France."
Teaspoon drew close to Rosemary and read the printout over her shoulder. His brow was furrowed in confusion as he read. "This just don't make any sense at all," he muttered.
There was no need to question just what he meant. The more all signs pointed to Elizabeth France, the more ludicrous the possibility seemed. There was absolutely no way someone like France would be careless enough to create a chain of events that would lead directly back to her; it wasn't even a possibility. Just as preposterous was the idea that she was attempting to mislead the police by making them think it was all too obvious. Such a tactic was far too amateurish for someone like Elizabeth France, or someone like Frankie James, two people who had built an underworld empire by cunning and stealth, and certainly not by ridiculous, Mickey Mouse schemes unworthy of them.
"Then I reckon we're left with the first possibility," Noah said. He was lounging in Lou's chair, his long legs on top of the desk in front of him. He was looking respectfully at Teaspoon as he spoke, not Rosemary. Noah tried to be fair, but after all, he wasn't a hypocrite. "Someone's setting her up. Likely it's someone after Frankie, and Elizabeth France is the best way to get to him." He paused. "Well, the only way really, eh? But…"
Buck frowned. "But who's got the means? Frankie James isn't someone you just decide to pick a fight with."
"You'd better have the resources," Lou conceded thoughtfully, "and the time, and the motivation."
"And the complete lack of fear," said Buck. "It's not exactly a secret what Frankie's done to anyone's who's gone up against him in the past. You've got to have some pretty righteous indignation to go after him with this kind of intent."
"It's entirely likely that this is insurance fraud after all," Kid interjected. "This could be Frankie's handiwork. Elizabeth can be proven innocent, Frankie's completely removed, he walks off with millions in insurance compensation."
Ike's brow was furrowed, his mouth tense as he thought. "There's another, equally like possibility," he said, his voice trailing off. He seemed hesitant, unsure whether or not to continue.
But, as had happened so often in London, Buck picked up where Ike had left off, and it was clear he was following Ike's same train of thought. "Frankie's done," Buck said, as if agreeing with him. His eyes were lighting up with realisation. "Frankie's done with Elizabeth. He's the one setting her up. He gets the police, the FBI, the government after her. Indisputable proof that she's connected to all these fires. She goes to prison, he walks away unscathed."
"Doesn't seem Frankie's style so much though, does it?" asked Nan. She had a thick folder from Frankie James's file and was rifling through it yet again. Her eyes skimmed over one page. "Seems like in the past, he's just done away with anyone who displeased him. Even this right-hand man of his--Kuhlman was it?" She flipped through a couple pages. "Wesley Kuhlman. All reports say he was nearly as vital to the organisation as Elizabeth, but when Frankie was done with him, he was done. I realise Elizabeth's--"
"Yes, thank you, Kenworthy." It was Rosemary, interrupting Nan without so much as a glance in her direction. She strode past Nan on her way to the front of the room and stood there, facing the other officers. "I believe we've all read the file on Frankie James. In fact, I believe many of us were familiar with him long before you so much as set foot on American soil, so it's really unnecessary for you to play these childish games of one-upping your co-workers."
Someone whistled a low, stunned whistle. The room was quiet. Nan and Teaspoon spoke at the same time.
"Childish? Are you effing serious, childish?"
"That's enough, Rosemary."
Nan's voice was high, strangled, furious. Teaspoon's was low and commanding, and by far the more imposing. Nan's voice died away at its authority, and the room somehow seemed even more subdued than before. Everyone was perfectly still. No one knew where to look.
Teaspoon was standing. His body language gave nothing away. He seemed almost relaxed, his hands in his pockets, his posture slightly stooped. But the intensity was there in the hold of his neck, the tightness to his jaw. Even his eyes seemed hard. A smarter woman than Rosemary would have flinched upon facing this Teaspoon Hunter, and it was clear that despite Rosemary's unyielding expression and haughty demeanour, she was doing just that.
The force and frequency of Rosemary's attacks on Nan were growing, and she was not at all shy about who was there to witness them. Perhaps she was more restrained in Teaspoon's presence, but he was fully aware of what was going on, of Rosemary's obvious--and often successful--efforts to rile Nan, of her campaign to have Nan removed from the STF, and if possible from the exchange program altogether. Her petition had been denied for now, but it was being kept on file, and Teaspoon knew for a fact that Waddell, who was something of a mentor to Rosemary, had advised her to keep a file of her own on Nan Kenworthy. It seemed to be all the encouragement Rosemary Burke needed to throw her weight around even more.
Rosemary arched an eyebrow. "Enough, Teaspoon?"
"Enough," he repeated, and his voice was like thunder. "This team isn't yours yet, and even if it were, I'd think seriously about the tone you take with your officers."
She flushed under his scrutiny, but her gaze didn't waver. "If you've got issues with my leadership, Teaspoon, I think it would be more professional if you discussed it with me in private."
"Like your issues with Kenworthy? Like how you're keeping it all between the two of you? Real professional-like?"
There was more than one sharp, impressed intake of breath at that. Everyone snuck glances at Nan.
"Teaspoon--"
"I'm still in charge of this team, Burke. As yet, you're here in a temporary capacity only. What's more, it's your presence and suitability here that's under scrutiny, not Kenworthy's." Teaspoon paused, narrowing his gaze. He'd hardly moved a muscle, yet gave the impression that he'd advanced upon Rosemary. It was quite impressive. "Do you think you can remember that in the future, Burke?"
Rosemary finally glanced away, her eyes moving out over the officers in the room. She turned a deep, unattractive red as they all looked back at her, meeting her gaze frankly. Nan's gaze was the frankest of all.
"Do you?" persisted Teaspoon.
Then she looked back at him. There was something in her eyes that Teaspoon did not at all like, something he might venture to call unconscionable.
But all Rosemary said was, "Oh yes, Teaspoon. I'll remember."
For the past eleven years, Teaspoon Hunter and Hugh Russell had developed a routine--some might say habit--of spending Friday nights at their favourite watering hole, Peg Leg Pete's, in the old Bowery district.. Sometime in those eleven years they had become friends with the owner, whose name was not Pete, but Fred, and who was moreover decidedly in possession of both working legs, not a sliver of wood between them.
The bar had once had a nautical theme, but that had long since fallen by the wayside. All that remained was the name, as well as the gigantic sign above the door with the jaunty, eponymous pirate and his decrepit-looking parrot, a few life preservers on the walls, and the best fish and chips this side of the big pond.
It had, over the years, become a favoured hang-out for guys just like Teaspoon Hunter and Hugh Russell: Men who had bade middle age a wistful goodbye some time before, but hadn't given it much thought since. Men often described by their younger counterparts as 'weathered' or 'crotchety.' Career police officers, and fire fighters, and dock workers. Men who wanted a bar with good music, good beer, maybe a good game on the weekends, and as little disturbance as possible.
Peg Leg Pete's had the obligatory ladies' night, but men like Teaspoon and Hugh were Fred Parker's bread and butter.
He drew their beer as soon as he saw them approaching: a dark ale for Teaspoon, who had acquired the taste during his time in London, and good old Coors on tap for Hugh. Fred slid them across the bar and nodded to the two men, but said nothing, just started a tab. Many times Teaspoon and Hugh sat down for a while and talked with Fred, but other times, as now, Fred could see from their serious faces, not to mention the stacks of folders in their hands, that this was an evening of business, not pleasure, and from years' experience, he knew to let them alone.
"He's a good man, that Fred," Hugh Russell said as he and Teaspoon found a booth away from the television. Peg Leg's--it was always Peg Leg's for some reason, never Pete's--was on the quieter side of bars most nights, but there was a Yankees game on tonight, and it was a holiday weekend, and things were bound to get rowdy.
"He's a good man," agreed Teaspoon, licking his lips after his first taste of the ale. "Damn, that's mighty tasty. Must be a new brew."
He and Hugh sat, quickly shedding their jackets and ties, unbuttoning shirts damp with perspiration. There was a good breeze over the table from the air conditioning. Teaspoon could feel the sweat on his brow cooling. That, coupled with the beer, and he could feel himself beginning to relax. He sighed in a rare moment of contentment.
Hugh had to go and ruin it all. "Rosemary Burke was in to see me this afternoon."
Teaspoon's eyes popped open resentfully and he felt himself tense. "No surprise there," was all he said.
"No, don't suppose so," Hugh replied, a touch of amusement in his voice. "She was hoping to see Waddell, but he was out, so she had to settle for me."
Teaspoon grinned sardonically. "I'm sure she was just pleased as punch."
"Oh, fairly swimming in delight," Hugh said, and they both chuckled. Hugh took a long pull of his beer and eyed Teaspoon. "She thinks you're gunning for her."
Teaspoon just shrugged.
"She's gunning for you, my friend."
"You're a good man, Hugh, but as the kids say, tell me something I don't know."
"Okay, fair enough." Hugh paused as a waitress came to their table. He and Teaspoon ordered--a chef salad and fries for Hugh, a cheeseburger with extra onions for Teaspoon. "You'll kill yourself eating that stuff," Hugh said as the waitress walked away.
"Yeah, them fries and that beer just make you the poster boy for healthy living," Teaspoon said mildly. It was an old argument.
Returning to the subject previously at hand, Hugh said, "What on earth did you say to the woman? She claims you belittled her in front of her officers."
"My officers," corrected Teaspoon. "And I didn't belittle her. It was her belittlement of Nan Kenworthy that started it all. It's been going on too long, ever since Nan got here, and pulling her to the side discreetly hasn't worked so far, so I decided to get a little more, shall we say, strident."
"She has some serious reservations about this Nan Kenworthy."
"She's made that abundantly clear," snorted Teaspoon.
"Are any of them valid?"
That stopped Teaspoon short. He looked into his friend's eyes and they both stared at each other for a moment. Teaspoon had read the complaint Rosemary had initially filed, and he knew Hugh had too. He also knew that Hugh would realise if Teaspoon was being the least bit untruthful with him, because the truth was, some of what Rosemary had said was valid. But it wasn't as simple as that.
"Some of her points were salient," he admitted. "But nothing's as black and white as she made it out to be. Nan Kenworthy is a good officer, one of the best I've ever worked with. Her credentials with the LMPF should be all that's necessary to refute everything Rosemary's claiming."
"But?" prompted Hugh.
Teaspoon sighed. "Is this off the record?"
"Teaspoon, don't insult me," Hugh admonished placidly. "I'm asking you as a friend. I'm asking you as one officer to another. Anyway, there's no formal investigation; that's been denied. I just want to know. Rosemary caused a real stink over this." He looked pointedly at Teaspoon. "You were saying?"
"She's a distraction to Jimmy Hickok," Teaspoon said finally. "It's not her fault, but she is. He has the chance to really make something of himself, but he never will while they're working together."
"And he's not equally a distraction to her?"
"The thing is… Nan's a different kind of person. She has an amazing capacity to switch off the personal when it's time to be professional. I'm not saying it hasn't slipped from time to time, but the girl has tunnel vision like you've never seen. She's insanely focused. The way Jimmy used to be."
"What about the rest of it?" Hugh asked as the food arrived. He looked thoughtful.
Teaspoon began to drizzle ketchup over his burger as he spoke. "The rest of it? It's not so cut and dry. Nan's physical limitations are almost nonexistent. She has occasional difficulty walking and running, but hell, we got boys in blue who like a few too many donuts in the morning, and they got the same problem for different reasons. It's no reason to get rid of a good officer."
"Rosemary says she's rude and uncooperative."
Teaspoon just laughed. "She's got a mouth on her. It's gotten her into trouble before. But if you treat her with respect, she's putty in your hands. I reckon even Rosemary Burke could have Nan's cooperation if she'd treat her with respect."
"That's no excuse, Teaspoon. As a subordinate, Kenworthy ought to know better than to shoot her mouth off, no matter what Rosemary Burke says or does. If she has issues, she should see a superior, not take matters into her own hands."
"I know it," admitted Teaspoon, "and Nan knows it too. Like I said, it ain't so cut and dry, Hugh. To hear Rosemary tell it, it's one-sided, all on Nan's side, but that's far from the truth."
"Rosemary also says your personal feelings toward Kenworthy, your fondness for her, are detrimental to the team."
"Hugh, I'm real fond of Nan Kenworthy. Think the world of her. But she belongs to Emma Shannon. She's not one of mine. You want to sit here and tell me Rosemary Burke says I'm too soft on Louise McCloud, I'll own up to it. Lou's my girl. Too easy on Buck Cross or Jimmy Hickok? You got me. But I'm fair and square by Nan, no coddling there."
"Well," sighed Hugh, "I don't know what to tell you, Teaspoon. Nothing's being done now, but Waddell's advised Rosemary to keep Kenworthy under scrutiny. Any further complaints and you're looking at Kenworthy under review by the board."
"That'd be a real shame, Hugh. Kenworthy's an asset to this team. And she could learn a lot from us if we give her the chance."
"And if Rosemary's petition to extend her trial with the STF is approved--"
For the first time that evening, Hugh's words had a startling effect on Teaspoon. He dropped his burger back on to his plate. "Her petition to extend her trial?"
Hugh's eyes widened. He set his fork down. "Lord, she really did go over your head, didn't she? She's submitted the request already. She's requesting her trial be extended until the case is completed."
"But she can't do that! There are other officers lined up for a trial with the STF."
"Only two candidates; that arrangement can be dealt with. Anyway, it may not be approved, Teaspoon," Hugh said, trying to reassure him.
"Oh, it'll be approved, Hugh, and you damn well know it. Rosemary's got Waddell in her pocket, and he's got Majors in his. They don't need your vote to extend the trial. Rosemary Burke's going to get what she wants."
"Teaspoon, settle down. It's going to be fine."
"It's not going to be fine. Don't try to placate me, Hugh. You know our world's as much about politics as it is about ability." Teaspoon slammed his hand on the table; he couldn't help himself. Inside he was seething. "She's going to get her extension, she's going to get Nan Kenworthy, and then she's going to get my team."
I don’t drink coffee, I take tea my dear
I like my toast done on one side
And you can hear it in my accent when I talk
I’m an Englishman in New York
“Englishman in New York” -- Sting
Doctor Ryan’s office was comfortable, and decorated with what was obviously flawless taste. There were none of the typical muted pastels on the walls, or generic, colour-by-numbers paintings. It was warm and welcoming, the colours earthy, the furniture elegant but cosy. It was a room designed for comfort and the patient’s ease. Unfortunately, for Nan, it was failing miserably. She couldn’t remember ever being so nervous in her life.
When the receptionist called her name, Nan jumped, visibly startled. She attempted a smile, but it was pathetically fake. The receptionist was unfazed. She was used to nervous women in the office.
Nan waited several minutes in the exam room until Dr Ryan finally arrived. She was a tall woman, slim, with abundant, golden blond hair and a kind face. She greeted Nan cordially.
“Anna Kenworthy?”
“Nan. Please.”
“Nan,” agreed Dr Ryan. “I understand I have Louise McCloud to thank for the referral.”
Nan smiled faintly. “Yes. We work together.”
“Did you transfer from England?”
“I’m here on a six-month exchange.”
“How are you finding New York?”
“I’m enjoying it. So far.” Not quite a lie, but a bit far from the truth. Still, no reason to burden the nice doctor.
“I love it here, myself,” said Dr Ryan. “Despite what you might hear, not all Southerners are opposed to living up north with the damn Yankees.”
Nan smiled, enjoying the sound of Dr Ryan’s low, honeyed voice. She hadn’t said or done much yet, but her bedside manner was immediately soothing, and Nan felt herself relaxing for the first time that day.
“Now. What can we do for you today, Nan?” Dr Ryan asked, sitting on the stool in front of Nan and scooting closer.
“Well, I think I might be pregnant.”
Apparently it was clear from Nan’s trepidatious tone that the possibility was far from expected, because Dr Ryan’s face was sympathetic. “Have you taken any tests?” she asked.
“Two. They both came out negative. But I know that’s not necessarily an indicator.”
“True,” nodded Dr Ryan. “The tests are remarkably accurate these days, but a false negative is much more likely than a false positive.”
“I’m several days late,” Nan said, finally voicing what seemed to her the fatal words. “I’m exhausted all the time, and I don’t have much of an appetite. But you know, I’ve just upped sticks and moved thousands of miles from home, I’ve got a new job, albeit a temporary one, and a boss constantly up my nose. I thought it was just stress.”
“That’s still a possibility, Nan. There are any number of reasons why you may be late, and suffering those symptoms. Just looking at you, your complexion seems very pale--”
“Well, I’m English,” offered Nan.
Dr Ryan laughed. “I was going to say that it’s also almost transparent. You could be suffering from anaemia, possible iron deficiency. Really there’s a great deal of other possibilities.”
“But pregnancy is the most likely,” Nan said, resigned.
“Yes,” admitted Dr Ryan, “it’s very likely. But we’ll run some tests on your blood, several tests, and we should have the results in a few days. The good news is, we’ll have your pregnancy results much sooner, so you’ll know one way or another by tomorrow.”
“That’s a bit of a relief, I suppose.”
“Let’s check a few things out first,” said Dr Ryan.
The exam went quickly, and when it was over, Dr Ryan patted Nan on the back, assured her there was no sense in worrying, and sent her down to the lab on the first floor.
When Nan stepped back out into the roasting New York morning, several vials of blood poorer, she paused and drew a deep breath. Whatever the outcome, it will be all right, she told herself. It has to be.
But as she made her way to the nearby subway station, she found it difficult to convince herself. Nan had no experience with babies, and scant experience with small children. Paulie, when he was a boy, and Langley’s kids, and that was it. Sometimes an officer would bring in their newest bundle of joy, and Nan would hold the baby and admire it. She liked babies, of course; they were small and roly-poly and they smelled lovely. But as for what to do with one? Nan Kenworthy wasn’t your girl. Babies were a foreign concept. And she’d never given much thought to having one of her own. She’d considered it, but never seriously and never for very long. It just wasn’t near the top of her to-do list, and it was highly unlikely she’d make a good mum anyway.
She was fairly sure she’d been born without a maternal instinct.
But--and here Nan stopped again, struck by the thought--a baby with Jimmy. Now there was an idea. It made her smile. A slow, warm, delicious feeling spread throughout her chest. Jimmy’s baby. A little tiny boy with Jimmy’s square jaw and gentle eyes. A little girl with Jimmy’s soft hair and his kindness. Oh, now that would be something, wouldn’t it?
Only Nan’s mind went on, spoiling the charming vision of Jimmy with a small bundle of baby in his proud embrace. It went further, to Langley’s regretful words: Missed my little girl’s dance recital again. She and her mum still aren’t speaking to me. Emma grumbling when her honeymoon was cut short: God help me if I decide to have children. I’ll never see them. And Abbie Narducci, just the other day: Equal opportunity, shmequal opportunity. If you’re a woman with children, say hello to the glass ceiling.
To Nan, who lived and breathed and felt fulfilled only by her work, it was terrifying to consider. She felt her heart begin to beat painfully. And lurking still deeper, in the furthest recesses of her heart, was perhaps the biggest concern of all, the one that had kept her from ever really considering having a child.
How could she possibly know how to be a mother, when she couldn’t remember a thing about having one?
Isabelle Kenworthy was merely a faint, dreamy shadow at the edges of Nan’s memory. Sometimes she heard her mother’s voice in her head, low and smoky, deliciously, thickly French, but she wasn’t sure if it was a real memory, or just the hint of the mother she had seen in Granddad’s home movie of her parents’ wedding. Sometimes she smelled freesias and thought of her mother, without knowing why. Once, she had smelled a chance combination of a half-dozen peculiar, accidental scents, and she had thought, That smells like my mother, and she had found herself weeping, devastated.
She’d been three when her mother and father were killed in a car crash on that far away road in far away France. Nan had been staying with Granddad in London, and there she’d remained, growing up to learn French at school, instead of from her mother, to argue with Granddad over inappropriate fashions instead of with her mother, to grow into a woman--a woman she was still unsure of--without a mother to compare herself to, to guide herself by.
It was tempting, even now, to idealise Isabelle Kenworthy. My mum would know what to do about that argument with Jimmy. My mum would say the right thing if she were here. My mum would understand why I love my work; she wouldn’t make me feel guilty about it, the way Granddad does.
Growing up without a mother, that all-important, imposing, tender figure others took so for granted, Nan had been forced to invent a saint, to make her perfect and infallible. Her father was real to her, thanks to Granddad’s memories of him, Jamie’s memories, the room he had grown up in, the city he had lived in, everything he had known surrounding her. But her mother was an enigma, virtually unknown to Granddad and Jamie, so mysterious, so different, so French. All Nan knew of her was what dozens of photographs and one home movie told: That her mother was stunningly beautiful, that she laughed a lot, that she loved blues and greens and her little girl. It wasn’t enough. It had never been enough.
What kind of mother must she have been?, Nan mused, watching the underbelly of Manhattan fly by as the train moved briskly along the tunnel. Something like Emma Shannon, maybe, who understood Nan so brilliantly. A lot like Nan’s grandmére in far away France, the plump, still-pretty woman who smelled like flowers, and who Nan hadn’t seen in years. Maybe a bit like Nan herself. But she didn’t know, and she would never know. And she hadn’t the least idea what sort of mother she would make, but certainly not a very good one. Especially not with an all-consuming, never-ending career that left little room for a life of any kind, let alone a life that would need to revolve around a child.
She tried to reason with herself, telling herself there was no sense borrowing trouble, but a feeling of deep foreboding had begun to settle in her chest. Whatever the outcome, baby or no baby, it will be all right, she thought, and she knew it was true. But it didn’t make her feel one bit better.
“You’re earlier than I expected,” Jimmy said as Nan entered the team room. “I thought you said you’d be in around one?”
“I finished early. I decided it was better to avoid the wrath of Frau Burke, so I came back straight away,” Nan replied. She glanced at Jimmy and smiled reassuringly.
She’d told him she was seeing a doctor that morning, but she hadn’t gone so far as to admit her real concern. Time enough for that later, whatever the results of the pregnancy test. No sense Jimmy worrying about it as well. He was having a difficult enough time keeping things professional, knowing that Rosemary was determined to boot Nan off the team. If she told him she might be pregnant, he’d lose the plot completely, and venture into Kid territory, and no one needed that.
Nan snuck a glance at Lou, who was deep in discussion with Shane Rowling. Lou seemed a bit perkier today, but Nan knew she still hadn’t given her news to Kid. Poor Lou. Nan sympathised completely.
From across the room, Lou could feel eyes on her, and she turned to see that it was Nan who seemed to be watching her. Lou smiled faintly at her, wondering how Nan’s own appointment had gone today, wondering if tomorrow a call from Dr Ryan would shake Nan’s world, or restore it to peace.
“Ready to hunt down dangerous criminal masterminds?” Cody asked as he materialised at her elbow.
Lou laughed. “Aren’t I always?” she asked archly.
“Well, I managed to snag us a squad car,” he said. “Your chariot awaits, madam.”
Someone had thoughtfully left the windows down a bit, so that there was the slightest breeze to stir the air in the otherwise stiflingly hot squad car. Still, it was easily a hundred inside, and the acrid smell of baking plastic did nothing to alleviate Lou’s nausea. The moment she settled into the driver’s seat, her bare arms connected to the worn and torn vinyl seat, and she yelped in pain.
“All your epidermis still intact?” Cody questioned with mild interest as Lou jumped.
“I think so,” she answered ruefully. “Roll up your window so I can crank up the air really good.”
“Uh…”
Lou glanced at him expectantly.
“Uh, well… Here’s the thing, Lou.”
“Yes?” Thankfully she had built up a store of patience while working with Cody over the years and she exercised it now. She rolled up her window and waited for him to continue.
Cody laughed, a sound that was more guilt and nerves than amusement. “It’s a funny thing, Lou.”
Lou turned the key in the ignition and sighed. “Cody, I swear,” she said, reaching for the air-conditioning button and pressing it. She got no further, because it was immediately clear what Cody’s “Um, well” had been about. “There’s no air conditioning!” she cried in outrage, punching the button once more, twice more, waiting for that welcome sound of air rushing into the car, desperate for that sweet, cool, blessed relief. She whirled in her seat. “No air conditioning!” she repeated, her voice scaling higher this time.
“Funny thing, isn’t it?” He was pulling off his jacket and avoiding her eyes.
“Cody, it’s supposed to be in the hundreds again today! Do you realise that? Do you realise what a New York summer day is like with no air conditioning?”
“Well, Lou,” he said with no small amount of irritation, “having spent the past ten summers of my life in this damn city, I actually do know.” He finally turned to face her and glared. “It’s not my fault, Lou! This was the last available car.”
“I suppose we can hazard a guess as to why,” she said sarcastically. She sighed again. “I guess there’s nothing we can do about it now.”
Lou pulled out into the midday Manhattan traffic, slipping on her sunglasses before rolling her window down once more. The wind built up from driving helped a little, but only a little, and sitting still at stop lights was downright agony; with no breezes stirring, the hot day had no trouble enveloping her in the car. Not to mention the sheer torture of looking at nearby cars, windows rolled smugly up, occupants clearly enjoying what Lou herself was being so cruelly deprived of.
By noon they had arrived at their destination, and as Lou and Cody stood on the sidewalk, they gazed dubiously at the purported location of the highly sought-after Arnold Brachmeier.
Quick Kwan’s was possibly the seediest-looking restaurant Lou and Cody had ever laid eyes on, and in careers that spanned a combined twenty years in two of the largest cities in the world, well… that was saying something. Lou took one look at the peeling linoleum floors, the stuffing pouring from the vinyl stools, the layer of unnatural sheen covering every surface, and without thinking put one hand protectively to her stomach. Then she blushed self-consciously and dropped her hand to her side. If Cody noticed the gesture he didn’t say anything.
Lou smiled wryly to herself. What was the likelihood that Cody, of all people, would notice? You’d need a bookie to figure out those odds.
“I think ‘restaurant’ is an awful nice term for this dump,” commented Cody. “Even ‘fast food joint’ would be a little high-class.”
Stifling a very unprofessional giggle, Lou followed him through the (unsurprisingly) empty establishment to the back, where the sound of laughter and chatter grew louder and stronger. The smell of grilling pork grew stronger too, and it hit Lou like a Mack truck.
First the odour assaulted her nostrils, gradually, but from there it was a veritable kamikaze run to her stomach, somehow managing to hit every one of her five senses along the way. Without understanding or caring how that was possible, Lou’s head swam, and she managed a sharp inward order to her body—Don’t do it, don’t you dare do it—before she inhaled in a rush of bile and bent suddenly at the waist, putting her hands on her knees and fighting desperately to hang on to both her dignity and her breakfast.
“Lou?” Worry and compassion were heavy in Cody’s voice, and Lou loved him for it, but God, just for once couldn’t he ignore the obvious as well as he ignored the subtle?
The wave of nausea passed, and slowly, slowly, Louise was able to lift her head and right her body into the vertical position nature intended. She managed to smile at Cody. “I think I’m coming down with something,” she said brightly. “I’ve been feeling it coming on for a few days now.”
She knew William F Cody, like she knew the sun rose in the east every morning, and he was just as predictable, even in his unpredictability. She could see the gears working in his handsome blonde head, the suspicion in his eyes turning to something too close to certainty for Lou’s liking. They teased Cody that he was slow on the uptake, that he saw nothing that was not in front of his face, and they would continue to tease him so, world without end, amen. But the truth was that Cody was smart, as smart as they come, and he was not a highly-decorated detective for nothing.
Cody was adding two and two, and he was going to come up with exactly four.
He opened his mouth, and Lou knew the words that were forming on his lips, or close enough, and she would not, could not, let him say them. “I’m fine, Billy, I swear. Come on, let’s see if Brachmeier’s where he’s supposed to be for once.” She reached into the pocket of her linen blazer and withdrew her ID. “Badges at the ready?” she asked.
Cody looked at her for a moment, his eyes sharp and steady. Then he nodded, just once, and drew his badge out of his own jacket.
He pushed his way through the swinging red door and Lou followed. They strode in purposefully, but without any posturing or unnecessary force. Even though career criminals like Arnold Brachmeier could spot a plainclothes detective a mile away, they never forgot to tread “softly, softly” as Emma Shannon liked to say.
“NYPD,” Cody announced in a low, flat voice.
There were only three men in the room, but even so it wouldn’t have been difficult, with their practised eye, for Louise and Cody to pick out Arnold Brachmeier. His appearance was altered noticeably from his most recent mug-shot, but any self-respecting recidivist knew how to use a box of hair colour and a shaving kit, so neither officer was deterred in the least.
Neither were they surprised to finally find Brachmeier, after weeks of futile searching, exactly where he was supposed to be. They weren’t surprised by much after ten years, not even the gun he pulled from the back of his jeans.
Unfortunately, they were surprised to find themselves looking down the barrel of not only Brachmeier’s gun, but two others as well.
“You just--just stay where you are,” Brachmeier said, less than impressive. The hand that held the gun was trembling ever so slightly, but he didn’t budge.
Looking back on moments like these, Lou could always pinpoint the exact second rational thought fled, and instinct took over.
The moment Brachmeier’s companions pulled out their own guns, Lou’s instinct kicked in with a familiar roar in her ears. Her own gun was out of her holster before she’d even had time to register the need for it, and she didn’t need to see Cody to know he had his own gun out as well. Her heart was pounding, her brain was clear; only intuition ruled Lou’s body right now.
“Put down your guns!” Cody bellowed. No one moved. “I said put down your guns!”
Still nothing, which was what Lou had expected. She knew Cody was equally unsurprised.
Three against two. Fair odds, considering Lou and Cody were well-armed and well-prepared.
Unfair odds, when you considered all three men were better-armed, with weapons that Lou knew were not yet legal in the United States.
The room was still, the only sound heavy breathing and the sizzle of meat on the grill. Another swell of nausea overtook Lou, but only for the briefest of moments, before her body fought it down, as if her system was too focused on survival to allow so petty a thing as nausea to break its concentration.
No one moved or spoke, until Cody--always Cody--said, “We appear to have us a good old-fashioned Mexican stand-off.” He didn’t take his eyes off the men in front of him, but said to Lou, almost conspiratorially, “It’s been a while since I been in one of these. How ‘bout you, McCloud?”
Any other time, Lou would have rolled her eyes, or decked Cody, or shot him a withering glance, but now, in this moment, when nothing existed in her body but gut feeling and impulse, Lou merely laughed appreciatively and said nothing.
“Now,” Cody continued, his voice hard, “up until this very moment, Mr Brachmeier, your situation was pretty ideal. We got nothing on you, you see, no warrants for your arrest. We just wanted to take you to the precinct, ask you a few friendly questions, and then send you on your merry way. Hell, we were even gonna give you cab fare. But now, now you’ve made us mad, Mr Brachmeier. Pulling out highly-illegal weapons on a pretty boy like myself, and a little-bitty woman?” Cody shook his head. “And officers of the law, to boot? I’m afraid we just can’t have that, Mr Brachmeier.”
“If your friends would care to lower their guns,” Lou said, picking up smoothly where Cody had left off, “and if you’d care to do the same, then maybe we can consider this whole thing just a big misunderstanding. Maybe we can pretend none of this ever happened. Maybe you can go home in a cab instead of three to five years.”
Arnold Brachmeier was sweating profusely. It was clear even from fifteen feet away, where Lou and Cody stood. He was a middle-aged man, slightly overweight, dressed in expensive clothes that he wore badly, and an expression of fear that was like a second skin. He was a petty thief. He had a few years in prison under his belt, but he was in over his head right now and he knew it. A half-dozen felonies on your record was nothing when you compared it to threatening an officer with intent to harm.
Lou and Cody saw the doubt register in his eyes as easily as they saw the sweat pouring from his temples.
In an instant that was as infinitesimal as it was limitless, Brachmeier lowered his gun, and the motion distracted his two companions, who turned to look at him out of the corners of their eyes. Their concentration wavered ever so slightly, Lou and Cody lunged, the men’s guns clattered to the floor, one bounced off the stove, a shot rang out, the sound of a bullet in Lou’s ears, and the crash of its force against hard metal. In movements that were so fluid they must have appeared almost synchronized, Lou and Cody had the two men on the ground, their knees pressing into their backs, the litany of Miranda rights in unison, the men’s groans of discomfort.
Brachmeier was at the back door, wrenching at the handle, fighting with the locks, his gun impeding his escape, but only for a moment, and then the door was jerked open, and sunlight flooded in, and more heat. Cody was yelling at Lou, “I’ve got them, Lou. Get Brachmeier!” And again as Lou rose to her feet and thundered out the door, “Get Brachmeier!”
Lou had spent the past several weeks fighting fatigue and nausea, but there was only instinct now, and she felt neither. She ran without thought or concern, just intent.
Brachmeier had gone right--they always went right--and if he got too far, there was the street, and lunchtime pedestrian traffic, and then it was hopeless. Lou had to get to him before then.
Rounding the corner she saw him, far ahead, but not so far she couldn’t imagine keeping up. Gun still in hand, Lou picked her heels up higher and forced her body into a burst of speed. There were a handful of people on the sidewalks, and they watched with an equal mixture of alarm and guilty curiosity, but Lou had never heeded them and she didn’t now. Brachmeier was still ahead, but she was gaining on him, yes definitely, and it felt good to see his figure grow closer, clearer.
Lou was breathing heavily and it hurt, hurt her lungs, her chest, her throat. The wind in her face stung her eyes, and her hair had come loose and was whipping her against her face, but she ignored it all. She had the fleeting thought, It didn’t have to be this way, Brachmeier, but then that was gone, because she was closer. Brachmeier had adrenaline on his side, but Lou had it too, and lightness and agility besides. She was even closer now. If she kept up this pace, she’d have him in handcuffs in no time.
“Stop! Police!” she yelled, just for good measure. It hurt her throat too, and her voice wasn’t very imposing now, but to hell with that.
Brachmeier was slowing, almost imperceptibly, but Lou saw it and she took advantage. Another burst of speed, God knew where it came from, but thank you, God, and a tired stumble from Brachmeier, and within seconds Lou was flying at him, her small body knocking against him.
Brachmeier toppled to the ground, rolled over, his arms and legs flailing. His fist connected with her sternum, and the impact nearly forced Lou to her knees. A little lower and he would have hit her stomach and her baby, and a rage unlike any Lou had ever known filled her veins.
He had risen to his feet, but just barely. Lou threw one leg out, behind Brachmeier’s knees, and she kicked harder than she had ever kicked in her life. Brachmeier collapsed, screaming in agony, on his stomach. She yanked his hands behind his back and slapped the handcuffs on his wrists. Then, and only then, did she allow herself to stop.
‘Panting’ was not an adequate word for what Lou was doing right now. Breaths came in sharp, painful eruptions. It hurt, oh God, it hurt, but she couldn’t think of that now. She just let herself do it.
Two thoughts came to Louise then, as she knelt with her knee in Brachmeier’s side, her breathing slowly returning to normal. The first thought was that this was, without a doubt, the first big break in the case.
The second thought was that this was also, without a doubt, the last time she could, or would, put her baby’s life in danger.
to be continued…