“I knocked,” she tells McCafferty who has stood and moved forward, “At the front.  I guess you couldn’t hear me so I came around through the garage since it was open…”

She looks exhausted; I remember Jinny saying the desk at the ER had relayed to her that there had been a six car MVA on some major expressway.

The difference between a six car pile up for an ER doctor and a six car pile up for highway patrol?  Scenery and backdrops. 

I take in the drawn white face, buzzed and glassy eyes and the white-knuckled grip on the handle of her crutch and run through some mental calculations; she’s written the F word down on at least one chart~~ And I’m not referring to “fuck”.  I’d guess multiple fatals, at least one of them a child and out of the survivors probably at least one more she figures won’t make it through ICU. 

She’s whipped. 

McCafferty steps around her and I get a very pointed look as she glides past me, one which I interpret as a “behave” command. 

Interesting.  McCafferty has apparently decided she’s my mother. I’ll ponder that later.  Not a good idea to drift off in bewilderment with Dr. CIA in the same room. 

“You must be exhausted, Kerry.  I’ll make some coffee.” 

Oh goody.  Let’s make sure she’s wide awake and amped for the slaughter.

“Thanks.  That would be heavenly right now,” Weaver says moving forward further into the kitchen area.  The limp is greatly exaggerated tonight, I notice.  Her shoulders slump wearily and every line announces absolute physical and mental exhaustion. 

I think the expression on my face is probably sympathetic when she looks up and makes eye contact for the first time.  She hesitates just slightly and then shrugs the strap of her shoulder bag off, gripping it in one hand before setting it down on the counter. 

She rummages through it distractedly, emerging with the jar of jam which she sets down on the tiles before speaking. 

“In a jam,” she states, voice quiet.  “Kim had a field day with that. Did you intend to be so Freudian, Sgt. Finn?”

Again with the jam.  Why is everyone so fixated on the goddamn jam?  Enough with the jam, for fuck’s sake!

It’s on the tip of my tongue to spit out something similar to this but it won’t come because she’s gazing at me with the laser beam eyes, thankfully switched to low and waiting and I don’t have a sarcastic, flippant bone in my body tough enough to plow through this.

So she gets a rare thing from H. Cooper Finn when I’m feeling cornered and helpless: honesty. 

“I don’t know.” 

God, I sound pathetic.  It’s come out in barely more than a whisper and sounds as weary as she looks. 

She gazes at me for a moment then pauses before nodding at the glass jar and tapping it with one small finger, cocking her head to the side. 

“If you’ve got head phones in there too I’ve lost fifty bucks.” 

The laugh bursts out of me, hard and ends on something much too close to a sob. 

“No,” I tell her, desperately trying to re-group and collect myself.  “You win.”

The last ends up with my voice breaking and more emphatic than I had intended and she, of course, doesn’t miss it. 

“Kerry?  Do you want to talk to me in private?”  McCafferty asks. 

I make it through the look of speculation cast at me, still on my feet, which is saying something at this point. 

“I think,” Weaver says slowly, as if not quite sure herself, “That I’d like to speak to Cooper, actually.  If I may.”   She gestures at the jar of huckleberry preserves and adds, ”Of course I don’t want to take up important investigative time.” 

McCafferty is chomping at the bit to get at that tape and hear what is on it.  Her eyes are fastened on it in a familiar gleam of relish and delight but she’s trying hard to maintain the niceties. 

“Cooper?” McCafferty asks, waving vaguely at the Mr. Coffee and I shake my head.  Caffeine is the last thing I need right now.  I consider asking for Heroin, but that would probably be pushing it.   
 
“In the jam,” McCafferty says musingly, reaching for it and studying it from every angle to see if she can discern the tape inside.  She can’t. 

“Nice job. You want to do the honors, or shall I?”

“Go for it,” I tell her sounding every bit as strung out as I feel.  “I’ve got a micro cassette player in my duffel bag.” 

“Prints preserved?”

“I don’t know.  I hope so.”

She nods and grabs a pair of yellow rubber gloves from behind her faucet and dons them. 

“I’ll be careful, then.  We might get lucky.  Go grab that player, Cooper.”

 I half want to tell her that once she hears the contents of that tape it’s not going to matter who all has smudged up the case.   Her crime lab can verify it’s not been tampered with or doctored up and they’ve got equipment to analyze the voices on it and a voice print is every bit as legitimate and considered viable, irrefutable evidence as a finger print.  But I’m too aware of Weaver sitting less than a foot away sipping coffee and contemplating me in silence, too leery of whatever she’s got to talk to me about.    Being tossed in the back of a vehicle with no handles to the rear doors has never sounded so appealing. 

They begin talking the moment I leave the kitchen to snag the player out of my duffel bag.  I glance back and see the two heads, so similar in color, bent towards one another, faces close, voices too low to discern more than rushed hissing syllables. 

Judging by the twin looks of annoyance and irritated rage, this is, as Martha Stewart would say, probably “A good thing.” 

I’m leery of leaving them alone to plot my demise and I am feeling very sorry for myself and very vulnerable and without back-up as I trudge back to the kitchen area.  

McCafferty unwraps the cassette case and removes the tape itself using her bare fingers since the gloves are now goopy with jam.   After a last pointed and stern look in my direction she speaks. 

“I’ll listen to it in my office.  Kerry, if you need anything just help yourself.  Or yell for me.” 

“I’m sure I’ll be fine,” Weaver says, smiling and I wonder how much if any of that statement was a reassurance to her along the lines of, “You’re not alone with this maniac; don’t worry.”

There are good silences and uncomfortable silences and weary silences and there are silences too fraught with internal warning bells to be actual silence.  The latter is the kind I sit through trying to not show on my face exactly how freaked I am.  I recognize the part of me that invariably takes fear and converts it to anger poking a slimy hand out to prod but I refuse to give in even though it would be a relief.  It’s much easier to smash than repair. 

After a few moments of this Weaver clears her throat and I hesitantly peek up and realize for the first time that I’ve got my shoulders hunched, chin tucked and I’m staring at her from under my bangs.  Jesus.  Talk about body language clues.  I take a deep breath and try to force my shoulders and head up but it’s slow going and when she speaks I nearly fall off the stool in shock. 

“I had this whole speech figured out…”  She’s looking down at the cup now and running a finger around and around the lip of it, voice slow and thoughtful and full of exhaustion.  “You know, what I was going to say to you and exactly how I wanted to say it, the whole thing and now I’m sitting here and I just don’t know if I have the energy to do this.”  She looks up at me and half smiles. 

“I don’t suppose you’re too terribly disappointed.” 

Uh, no.  Words like “ecstatic”, “relieved”, “joyful” are more like it.

 So imagine my surprise when someone, who sounds like me on a viciously self-destructive kick says quietly, “You should say it.  Because if you don’t you’ll be pissed at yourself later.  And then it’ll be even worse when you get around to it.” 

 When she just gazes at me I shift on the stool a little and take a deep breath. 

“Maybe we should just skip this part and get straight to where you tell McCafferty you want to file a complaint.  I’ll play nice and some uniforms can pick me up and you sign and that’s it.” 

She lifts an eyebrow and sighs hard, shaking her head and half-smiling. 

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?  Fits in with this image you’ve concocted to hide behind~~  Cooper Finn, Bad Ass Cop. You get to look put upon and tough and suffer pay back all at the same time.  Neat.  Nice and tidy.”

I blink and she laughs slightly.

“You’ll have to excuse me for not playing that game and not falling for it.  I was writing rules and moves for it when you were in junior high.” 

“Oooh, now, I don’t know,” I caution her.  “I learned at the knee of a professional victim.  I’m pretty damn good.”

She eyes me over the rim of her coffee cup with her brows lifted slightly.  There’s at least twenty five seconds too much silence for me and my Oh Shit leg begins jittering on the stool rung.  

I definitely just handed her too much information. 

“So,” I say, because anything is better than silence and being perused by someone as perceptive as Dr. CIA, “If you’re not here to file charges on me…  What are we doing?”

“Something much more terrifying, I’m afraid.”  She leans forward slightly, mouth quirking upwards slightly at the corners.  “We’re going to… talk.”

I lift my lip in disgust and frown.  “Ack.  No.  Not that!  Anything but… talk.”

She chuckles.  “Cruel, aren’t I?”

“Twisted,” I agree.  “Sick.” 

“You should see me with interns and P.A.’s.” she says dryly, then leans forward slightly to peer into the cake dish on the counter top with tired interest.  “What’s Kate got in there?”

I’m hell on body fluids and scattered human remains, but I’m not exactly the best person to ask to ID pastry.  I shrug and lift the top, sniffing. 

“Smells like cake,” I offer and she snorts and sighs and begins the process of sliding off the stool with her crutch. 

 “Keep your seat,” I tell her, rummaging through cabinets for a plate, then in the dishwasher for a fork and knife.  I lift a brow at her after I wash them and she smiles, rather tightly. 

“What?  It worry you, me with a butter knife?”

She blinks and then snorts laughter.  “Hardly.”

“No?  I’m crazed, you know.  A maniac. “

“Uh huh,” she says. 

“Really.  I’m dangerous.” 

 She’s watching me, half smiling.  “Who are you trying to convince?” 

Maybe I should just stay quiet.  Safer that way. 

She eats the first several bites in silence, sipping coffee and I’ve been lulled into relaxing so that when she speaks I nearly jump off the stool in surprise. 

“I need to ask you something, you know, before we begin the actual talking.” She says it not looking at me, small hand using the fork to dispose of the cake in neat, asymmetrical pieces.

When I don’t respond she looks up at me, sharp, waiting and I nod.  My stomach rolls uneasily. 

“Did you intend to harm Kim?”

I’m surprised.  She waits, chewing, eyes intent and level and I shake my head more in mystification than negation. 

“It doesn’t matter, remember?   ‘That’s hardly the point’.  You said it yourself.” 

“Ah, well.” She pauses for a sip of coffee, holds her cup out, sliding her eyes to the coffee machine and back in silent command.  I obediently fill it for her and when I’ve turned away to sit the pot back onto the warmer she sighs. 

“It wasn’t the point then, no.  You were out of control.  I wanted you out before anything else happened and yes~~ I was furious with you.  It does matter now.”  She gazes at me, unblinking.  “So… did you?”

It’s on the tip of my tongue; the easy answer, the one she wants to hear, the one I want to say. 

What pops out instead is a rather small and hesitant, “I don’t know.” 

I fidget on the other side of the counter, still standing, frantically trying to navigate the rough waters of whether to remain upright or not; if I sit she can see my face, if I stand she’ll know I’m afraid to sit.  It’s all too fucking perplexing and I’m exhausted and of course, whichever I choose, with Dr. CIA I am fucked because she’ll know why I chose what I did and it’ll no doubt be more than I intended to give away. 

Cooper Finn, emotionally constipated and hovering indecisively over a bar stool.  Jesus fucking H. Christ. 

I’m rather startled when she leans far over and peers at me beneath the overhanging cabinets, grinning slightly when I jump and actually emit a surprised squeal she apparently decides to ignore.

“I appreciate the honesty, Sergeant.”

I consider murmuring, a “de nada” and elect not to.  When her eyes flit pointedly at the stool near my hip I perch on it tentatively and hope the look on my face isn’t as anxious and bewildered as it feels. 

Judging by the politely amused smile I’m receiving, it is. 

“Want to know what I think the answer is?” she asks me after several more minutes of relative silence in which she has polished off the cake completely. 

It’s a rhetorical question I’m certain; one she’s asked because she wants to answer it, so I say nothing and wait but of course this is Dr. CIA, as learned in interrogation techniques as myself and she knows better than to proceed before the subject has indicated a willingness to participate further.  I give her the nod she’s waiting for, albeit a somewhat jerky wide-eyed one.  I wish I knew where the hell she was going with this. 

“I think the answer is no or I wouldn’t be sitting here.” 

Okay.  Works for me.  I feel the relieved grin wanting to spread itself across my face.  I peek up at her and of course she’s watching me because she doesn’t miss a trick. 

“What I find interesting though is that you seem to have doubts.” 

I frown at her.  “Not doubts exactly.” I slide off the stool uneasily. 

“No?  What would you call them then?”

The best defense is an offense so I take wide legged stance and say in a hopefully casual tone, “So while we’re talking… did you really refuse to go to that Nazi Group Therapy Session this morning?”

She blinks and snorts surprised laughter, then lifts the coffee cop in a toast, grinning.

“Nazi Group Therapy; I like that.  Apt.” 

I bend my head in acknowledgment.  And wait. 

“Yes, I did.”

She slides the empty plate across the counter to me.  I take it and am stashing it in the dishwasher when she surprises me by adding, “Actually I went…  I just got there late and didn’t go outside.  I was relieved when there was no bloodshed or bullets.”

“Or broken bones,” I put in. 

“That too,” she agrees. 

I try to keep my voice light when I ask it. 

“That why you were there?  To suture or splint, just in case I went berserk again?”

There’s a pause while I ponder the mysteries of McCafferty’s dishwasher with desperate interest, but let’s face it~~ there’s only so much going on inside a dishwasher.  Dishes and cutlery are not exactly the most stimulating of pieces, even when it comes to inanimate objects. 

When I finally look up she’s gazing at me, expression unreadable.  She doesn’t move for several seconds and when she does it’s with a groan as she lays her head into her hands and rubs wearily at both temples. 

“I don’t know.  You know, at first I was going because I thought it was a terrible idea and I felt that if your buttons were pushed the way I knew Kim was going to push them it wouldn’t matter to you that it was in a public place, that it might actually provoke you more that it was a public place.” 

She stops and I find myself being studied while a myriad of emotions move swiftly across her features as if she’s watching something internally.  Whatever past life or past scene it is, the memory of it is not a pleasant one and she blinks wearily before I see her focus and return to the present. 

“And then when you came out of the kitchen, you walked right past me.  I was in a booth there near the exit you used.  The look on your face was…” she falters into silence, shaking her head and waits, silently, expression solemn, brow puckered in thought and concentration, gazing at me wearily before releasing a long, tight sigh. 

“So what do you think of that?  Think the Bad Ass Cooper Finn can deal with not going to jail over an assault?  Because from where I sit, you and Kim are even.  In fact, she might even be slightly ahead of you.  Your reaction was spontaneous and impulsive; hers took some rather thoughtless planning.  I love her but the woman is like a pit bull when it comes to forcing someone to grasp some point by shoving it down their throat.” 

She clears her throat and looks down at the cup of coffee she is swirling slowly and repeats the question. 

“So?  Can you deal with just accepting responsibility for what you did without being actually punished?”

I wonder if my nod is as shaky and distracted as my voice when I try to speak. 

“I punish myself more anyway.”

She nods, sliding her eyes to the side and half smiling.  “I sensed that.  Me too. “

 She looks desperately uncomfortable and uneasy as if she’s searching for words. 
 
“I suck at this, at anything like this where I have to pull up emotions on command,” she tells me, shaking her head.  “I honestly thought I could come over and have this conversation and say everything I had to say and I had a shitty day and I can’t.  I’m sorry.” 

I don’t know exactly what she’s apologizing about, but I nod.  I don’t think I could survive much more intimacy from her anyway.  I think my brain would burst from trying to withstand the intensity of it. 

“Bad accident?” I ask and realize in amazement that yes, this is me stalling for time to prolong a conversation with Dr. CIA. 

“Oh yeah,” she says wryly, smiling a little and leaning to thrust both hands through the red hair, leaving it standing on end, irritated and perturbed fine spikes of it.

"Children, huh?" I query. "At least one. And at least one fatal. And~~" I lean forward and sniff, deliberately. "Haz Mat. Chemical spill. Some kind of diesel I think. Flash fire, which means burn victim which means a GCC."

She's gazing at me, unblinking, bemused.

"Geck?" she repeats.

"Yeah," I say "A Gruesome Crispy Critter. And, since Jinny said it was a six car pile up, I'd guess at least two DRT's."

"Dirts?" she asks, finely drawn red brows swooping together and making a tiny line in the smooth white forehead.

"Dead Right There. As opposed to the slightly more lively DOA's television has made so popular."

“Ahhhh,” she says, smiling slightly.  “Cop talk.” 

I nod.  “Are you impressed?”

“By cop talk?  Hardly.”  The laugh is more of a snort and definitely dismissive.  She sees something in my face which I would probably not willingly give away and clears her throat, then looks up at me. 

That much earnestness and sincerity in a face should be illegal.

 “I thought what Kim had planned this morning was… cruel,” she says finally, shrugging a little.  “I thought it was mean and ugly and not something I would want to have done to me.  So, I suppose, in some odd way I was there today to protect you really more than I was there to help Kim.  And the truth is, I’m not really sure how I feel about that.” 

For the first time in several moments she looks up at me. 

I see a Kerry Weaver I’m not likely to see often; vulnerably open and exposed, a creature of emotions so raw she does not dare reveal them often. 

I know that look, that face, that expression.  I’ve seen it in the mirror after nights of rabid, searching doubt and fear and I know exactly how much it costs her to not slam the professional icy demeanor and veneer down over it.  I know at least some of the price she has paid earning that look. 

We’re eyeing one another in some sort of dazed and yielding swirl of emotion when McCafferty throws open the door of the butler’s pantry and stands spread-legged in the frame of it, holding the micro cassette player, head phones still over her ears and the grin on her face wide and contagious.

“If I don’t have champagne we are going out for it because ladies, we, as Cooper said, are going to nail Massey and Chandler!” 

 

END OF THIRTY