I’m dreaming.

Jinny and I are in a boat, drifting lazily down a river which is clearly the Pecos complete with salt cedars lining the banks of bed rock and flash-flood savaged cliffs.

I’m amused to see she’s decked out in white eyelet and what looks like a hoop skirt and she grins at me, twirling a parasol with fluttering orchid colored ribbons before crossing her feet in gleaming white buttoned shoes and glancing pointedly at the water accumulating in the bottom of the wooden craft. I peer in consternation at the muddy stuff which is gurgling in from a hole between my feet and for a moment I’m more worried about my own pair of spotless white kid leather footwear than I am at the rate the boat is filling and sinking.

“Huckleberry,” Jase says and I take the hollowed out computer mouse he’s offering me as he clings to the side of the boat, grinning, head sleek and wet as a seal’s. “Bail.”

I start scooping up water and tossing it over the side and discover I’m barefoot now and my skirt has morphed into a pair of muddy brown river-rat trousers, ragged and hacked off at the shins.

I grin at Jase as I toss the water out and it rainbows over his head. “So in this story does Huck get Becky Thatcher?”

I glance at Jinny as I say it and in the way of dreams she’s shed her dress and is decked out much the same as me, in ragged, tattered britches and an oatmeal colored shirt with loose breezy poet sleeves. She grins at me again, this time from beneath a battered straw hat and I grin happily back.

“More like Huck gets Tom Sawyer,” Jase says wryly and then ducks the water I toss at him, sliding neatly under the surface without a bubble or gurgle.

“Jase?”

My dreaming self remembers suddenly some rippled echo of a reality where Jase Isn’t and I glance worriedly at my feet as cold water suddenly bubbles up around my ankles. I steel myself, shuddering, seeing it’s murky and I feel something slither and glide along the tops of my toes.

“Jase?” I call again, leaning over the side and peering into the muddy unfathomable depths.

The boat rocks precariously as I swing to look over the other side and on the wooden seat across from me Jinny braces herself and lifts a hand to point to some danger or hazard down river and I realize the current’s changed and I can hear the hiss of rapids ahead~~

I half-wake, disoriented and confused.

Some slice of my brain tells me the hiss of the dream rapids was actually the door’s bottom edge being slowly raked across carpet. I feel some shift of heat or air or energy and know someone has stepped across the threshold.

There are two seconds of utter bewilderment when I open my eyes and possibly another three as I levitate off the bed in panic. I land gracelessly on my ass and instinctively scoot myself into the shadows, dazed, heart hammering.

The figure at the end of the bed was already in motion before my leap and the signal from brain to muscle units has gone out too swiftly to be recalled even as I see the upper body jerk slightly in reaction. The arms swing down and there’s the dull muted whap of some cylindrical object into the mattress and rumpled sheets I just vacated.

The form pivots towards me and there’s the slight creak of floorboard as he shifts his weight and I suck in my breath with a high pitched hiss and dive into a sloppy somersault as he swings at me.

It’s so close the disturbed air kisses the side of my face.

I scramble backwards on all fours, keeping low. I struggle to make out details; dark sneakers, dark clothing, a ski mask~~ but I’m groggy. Adrenaline rockets through me fighting the wooziness and I blink as light from the window skids along the object he shifts in his hands and there’s a metallic wash of dull gray and an answering glimmer on the ceiling overhead.

Bat, my brain supplies fuzzily. Aluminum.

No Glock and I’ve thrown myself off the bed on the wrong side to reach the straight razor stashed in the night stand.

Not good.

And I’ve crabbed my way into a corner between the bed and the wall and the brass frame is modern and sits low to the floor; today’s woman doesn’t cower and hide beneath her bed, fuck no.

Today’s woman is supposed to kick the intruder’s ass, not recoil in horror and shock, hands up over her head trembling. Unfortunately, today this particular woman is all out of
whup-ass and I can’t seem to wake up enough to convince myself I know what to do in this situation, can’t seem to persuade myself I haven’t been sucked back in time thirty years.

The floor creaks again as his weight shifts and there’s a muted sound my bleary brain tells me was probably a stifled hiss of laughter no doubt a result of my cringing into a ball of knees and elbows as far into the corner as I can wedge myself. So much for the big, bad ass H. Cooper Finn.

When the light’s thrown on I’m momentarily confused, then look up when I hear the intruder’s befuddled, “Wha~~” followed by the rather sharp crack of metal on skull and five seconds later the muffled thud as Ski Mask hits the floor unconscious.

I’m more than a little disconcerted to peer up through my fingers and see Weaver leaning down, face uncharacteristically animated, her hair in furious red spiky disarray. Her stance is unnatural, half falling herself, one hand boosting her on the corner of the bed, white fingers fisted into the sheets there. My eyes jerk involuntarily to the gleaming aluminum of her crutch where it lies at a right angle to the body on the floor.

“Cooper?”

Her voice catches and it startles me; that and the rather wild look of bewildered imminent violence I see in the wide green eyes.

I force my hands off my face, teeth chattering and manage a shaky nod and we both look at the slack limbed form where it’s sprawled on the champagne colored carpet for at least ten seconds before training kicks in.

Weaver goes to her knees with her hands zeroing in on pulse points and her eyes switch up and to the right in some Doctor Zone where she is counting heart rate as it pertains to head injury and I crawl to my duffel bag and unsteadily rummage through the contents until I find my cuffs.

“Help me,” I manage between the rapid fire chattering of my teeth and she braces herself on her knees supporting the weight as we roll the body enough to cuff the hands at the small of the back.

“Make the call,” she says once we’re done and I’m relieved to hear how bossy she sounds although I hesitate, looking dubiously at the legs in the black jeans.

“He ought to be flex cuffed too,” I say, then remember I don’t have any anyway. I pause uncertainly and look up when a hand gently grips one of my shoulders and shakes me a little.

“Phone, Cooper,” she says voice even more nasal with tension and I nod, then shove myself to my feet, swaying slightly at the sudden change in my blood pressure.

“There’s an extension in the other bedroom,” she says as I stagger and reach for the door frame to steady myself, blinking. “Don’t try the stairs. Use the phone in my bedroom.”

I nod, fighting nausea and let my back fall against the door as I slide slowly down to my knees.

“Think I got up too fast, maybe,” I offer weakly when Weaver slides across the floor and takes up my wrist now, frowning.

She snorts. “Halcyon and adrenaline do not mix well. I picked a doozy of a night to sedate you so efficiently.”

“No shit,” I mutter and then shove her hands away and glance at the still form on the carpet as I blearily shove myself upright again.

“If he starts coming to before I get back yell at me and I’ll come fall on him or something.”

“Do not try the stairs,” she yells after me and I wave a hand in a vague salute.

“O-kay, Mom,” I yell back then concentrate on navigating the hallway without bouncing my head off the walls.
 

I have to close one eye to punch out a woozy 911 before realizing I can’t remember the address and apparently the lazy combination of drawl and drugs is almost too much for the dispatcher on the other end to be expected to deal with at two a.m.

Ascertaining the street and house number is a piece of cake since of course their equipment automatically traces the phone number back to the residence, but trying to explain exactly what’s happened that we need police and an ambulance proves to be rather strenuous. For both of us.

I’m grinding my teeth in frustration and hissing, “I am speaking English you fucking~~” when Weaver casually removes the receiver from my hand and supplies the information needed, then gives me a rather pointed and amused look as she returns it to base.

“Go glare at the guy on the floor, Tiger. I’ve got to run down and unlock the front door for the Po-leece.”

I’m not so groggy and drugged up all training’s deserted me and I snag her sleeve as she turns.

“Wait. Maybe he wasn’t alone.” I glance around the tidy cranberry and cream room, taking in the king sized pine four poster and matching dressing table complete with antique silver hand mirror, brush and comb set neatly atop dainty lace doilies and wrinkle my nose ruefully.

“No chance you got a gun stashed somewhere, is there?”

“Not a chance,” she responds, shaking her head and turning again.

“Pepper spray? Stun gun? Mace?” I quiz and have to grab one of the bed posts midway through a yawn so huge even Weaver blinks back empathy tears then pats my shoulder consolingly before startling me by lifting and shaking the crutch with an expression I can only describe as somewhat maniacal.

“No. But,” she growls, “I do have this.”

I’m struggling to decide whether to laugh or suggest Legaspi be called back from the conference in San Diego for an emergency psych consult when she grins hugely, pivoting efficiently on her weapon of choice and crutches rapidly down the hallway.

“Calm down. If there was anyone down there they’ve left by now. “

I fight back another yawn and follow her, bumping lackadaisically off the walls a few times.

She’s already to the landing by the time I’ve groped my way to the head of the stairs where I lean against the wall and debate if it’s worth the potential concussion to attempt.

“And you know this how?” I ask. “Reruns of Murder, She Wrote?”

“Don’t be silly, Cooper,” she says mildly, pausing briefly and glancing up the stairway at me, head cocked to the side.

“There was a Die Hard marathon on TNT last night.”

“Ha, ha.”

I try to make it snarky but end up giggling and she flicks a hand at the open door to my right.

“Go sit on the patient.”

“Suspect.”

“Whatever.”

I don’t want to mess with the crime scene before the local heat arrives, but I can’t resist tugging the ski mask up enough to peek at the person beneath.

He’s young, no more than nineteen years old, maybe under seventeen and Hispanic. Face smooth and babyish, a peppering of hair on the chin he’s obviously trying to coax into a goatee, cheeks plump and slack as if he’s curled up on his side asleep, rather than unconscious and cuffed. I’d noticed a tattoo on one of his hands as I’d fastened the restraints and I boost him slightly with a foot to look at it again.

It’s the standard dark blue green ink done on the fleshy bit of skin between thumb and forefinger; five dots. Four of them are arranged in a diamond shape, the fifth tacked on like the tail of a kite and so far into the tender thin skin of the web it had to be excruciating. He’s got letters inked in on his fingers as well, a ‘C’ on the thumb to the left of the diamond, H A G and O between the first and second knuckles on the other fingers.

Chago.

In Tex Mex, familial slang for “brother”. So a nickname maybe, or some type of gang tag which I’d bet money encompasses the diamond/kite as well.

I lean back against the side of the bed, watching his fingers twitch as he starts the slow swim back to consciousness and rub at my eyes, blearily calculating the odds of this being a random B&E with nothing to do with Massey and Chandler and myself.

It’s a city, there’s a lot of crime. Even in an up scale neighborhood, even in an area where every home and office sport a visible alarm security system sticker in a front window~~ alarm system. My brain stops suddenly, furiously trying to think clearly.

I know for certain, after last night, this house definitely has an alarm system.

I lift my head, listening. There’s noise downstairs but it’s muted and calm sounding, certainly not Dr. CIA being forced to violently whack another intruder over the head. In fact, I clearly hear her laugh seconds before someone starts up the stairs at what sounds like a head long gallop followed by a second pair of feet, only slightly slower and a rather annoyed voice yelling, “Tee, we’re supposed to wait for the cops; you know that.”

“And you heard Dr. Weaver say she bonked the guy in the head and then cuffed him. I think we can take an unconscious guy in hand cuffs, Jo. And besides,” this, as the galloper tops the stair case and the figure slides to a stop in the doorway. “We got a cop on the scene already.”

I’m treated to a hugely delighted grin from the blonde blue-uniformed EMT who stands beaming at me before tossing a medic’s bag onto the carpet, perilously close to the head of the subject she’s been called to administer aid to. She plants both hands on her hips and bounces on her toes, seemingly overwhelmingly thrilled to be there.

“Okay,” she says, rocking slightly, expression cheerfully expectant. “Talk for me.”

I blink and point at the kid laid out on the floor. “That would be the hurt guy.”

If I weren’t sedated to the gills her reaction would probably have provoked more than the startled jerk of elbows and knees than it does; as it is she doesn’t seem to even notice as she bends double, then slaps both hands onto her thighs in an apparent expression of ecstasy.

“I love it!” she crows, clapping in delight, turning to look behind her and repeating it gleefully. “Like music to my ears!”

A second EMT has appeared in the doorway and unceremoniously bumps her out of the way, sending an apologetic look in my direction as she sinks to her knees at the head of Ski Mask aka Chago.

“It must be a really slow night,” I venture, eyeing the blonde with what I hope is a safely neutral expression and not one screaming, “Psycho Alert! Psycho Alert!”

“Ignore her,” the brunette tells me, with an eye roll which conveys she does know exactly how hard this is to do.

“Did she just tell you to ignore me?” the noisy one demands, striding over and squatting, beginning to show signs of actually being a paramedic responding to the scene of an injury accident. “I’ve told you that’s not polite, Jo. Telling people to ignore me right in front of me. It just ain’t nice.”

“Shut up, Tee,” Jo responds calmly, head tilted as she takes Ski Mask’s pulse. After a brief pause while she listens she smiles at me as she expertly slides and fastens some sort of brace about Ski Mask’s neck and throat and says in a conspiratorial tone, “Sawyer’s homesick. She practically urinated on herself when Dr. Weaver said you were from Texas.”

“Jo likes to talk about me like I’m not in the room,” Sawyer says, then looks up at me, grinning. “Talk to me some more about where the keys are for these cuffs. I need to start an IV and it’s fucking impossible when they’re cuffed at the back.”

I fetch them, seeing the first patrol unit arrive below. Sawyer looks up at the flash of reds and blues on the walls and snags the keys as I toss them.

“Look who finally got here,” she comments dryly. “Good thing Weaver already nailed his ass. You okay?”

It takes a second to grasp she’s talking to me since it appears to have been addressed to Ski Mask’s butt region, but when she glances up at me a second later, I nod and sink down on the edge of the bed.

“Those contusions are old, right?” Jo asks, frowning as she stands and bends over me, peering avidly at my bruises. “You seem a little woozy, maybe.”

“40 milligrams of Halcyon will do that to you,” Weaver says from the doorway. “One of you want to help Gonzales get the stretcher up the stairs?”

“On it,” Jo says swinging past her.

Sawyer chuckles as she expertly ties off Ski Mask’s arm and inserts the needle for the I.V. “That’s because she knows I rule at starting I.V’s,” she assures me confidently.

“I think it has more to do with her knowing I don’t want holes in my stair case walls,” Weaver comments dryly, crutching over and looking down at me, head to one side.

“You alright? I thought about making some coffee but that’s defeating the purpose of forcing you to rest~~concussion and mild cerebral contusion,” she says slightly louder over her shoulder and I see Sawyer’s mouth clamp shut immediately and suppress a grin.

“He use?” I ask the paramedic and slap at one of my inner elbows. “Needles?”

“Um… Yeah.” She turns his arm slightly, peering at it, then peels up the sleeve on the other side, nodding. “Looks like he pops it though. Not real serious yet. Right arm only.”

In stereo she and I both pronounce, “Lefty” with rather smug drawls then grin at one another while I pretend to not notice Weaver has lifted my wrist and is taking my pulse yet again.

“Just humor me,” she murmurs.

I nod and shove the hair off the back of my neck restlessly, then jerk my chin at the figure which is now stirring slightly.

“Any more tatts on that other side?

“Nope,” Sawyer pronounces and looks up grinning when the doorway is filled with her partner and a brawny good looking male, fairly reeking of Halston.

“Gonzo!’ she pronounces, in tones normally reserved for greeting bar patrons on NBC sitcoms. “I smelled you coming.”

“In your dreams, Tee,” he leers back and then stiffens as Jo pops him on one meaty shoulder. He looks at Weaver apologetically.

“Sorry, Doc.”

“Not a problem Gonzales. Are there any officers actually in the house yet?”

“They’re sort of poking around down there,” Jo offers dubiously before turning her attention back to Ski Mask who is showing definite signs of coming to and Sawyer, who is showing definite signs of being annoyed at getting whacked in the face by flailing arms.

“Fuck,” she spits out, nursing an eye and managing to glare imperiously at Gonzales from the other one.

“Sorry, Tee,” he says morosely, head hanging as he restrains Ski Mask with what looks like a pinky on either arm.

“Just, you know, try to work as good as you smell, that’s all I ask, ” she says kindly and I don’t miss the rather extravagant eye roll exchange between Weaver and the dark haired EMT before the uniforms enter the room, notebook and pencils in hand.

“What we got here?” one of them asks the room at large and I see Jo’s hand flash out and lay over Sawyer’s mouth the second it pops open.

“Just, you know, try to work as good as you smell,” the brunette says softly. “That’s all I ask.”

I’d have to be actually comatose to miss the looks exchanged between the two uniforms when in the process of filling out the disturbance call sheet they ask my name.

I’m seated on the edge of the bed as they interview me; Weaver has risen and backed away slightly, giving the EMT’s room to work.

“And… how was this injury sustained?” Gonzales asks curiously, one hand boosted on the patient’s knee cap. He’s semi conscious now and showing definite signs of being combative which could mean a fairly serious head injury although judging by the dents in the end of the bat I’d say Ski Mask has had some issues with anger management for awhile.

Weaver clears her throat, looking at the floor. “Blunt force trauma to the~~”

“She beaned him with her crutch,” I say and don’t even try to hide the sheer glee in my voice; over both the situation and that I beat Sawyer to yapping about it. Her mouth snaps shut and she blinks in consternation no doubt deciding she’s not all that homesick anymore.

More than one smart ass Texan in a room gets confusing.

The EMT blinks and peeks up at Weaver for verification and I don’t miss the pleased grin even though she ducks her head slightly to hide it and then gives me a look that makes all three paramedics shift uneasily, as if they hear shrapnel whistling over their heads.

“It was necessary to subdue him, yes~~”

“Finn, huh?” one of the uniforms repeats, nudging me with a toe to get my attention and when I look up he leans down and makes a show of sniffing my breath.

“Been drinking anything tonight?” he asks, pencil poised, eyes moving lazily over the cleavage exposed in my spaghetti strap tank top.

“No.” I try for firmness but just sound annoyed and exhausted.

“No? You sure? Eyes look a little glassy, speech is slurred~~”

Weaver’s been unable to resist getting in on the action, has confiscated or produced a stethoscope from somewhere and is bent over the restlessly moving figure, head cocked, listening. I see her stiffen a little as she catches either the tone or the words and when she glances at me I shake my head and try to smile a little, then she’s distracted by a question from one of the crew and I blink and try to focus in on the questions being tossed at me.

They look at one another, seeing I’m confused and exchange “I knew it” looks accompanied by disgusted shakes of the head.

Nothing worse than a bad cop, I translate from Cop 2.

Never should have fucking let women in to begin with, is Cop 1’s viewpoint.

“So what happened here?” Cop 1 asks me with a good ol’ boy grin, squatting on his heels and not even pretending to not leer now. He throws a careless hand at Ski Mask as they prepare to lift him onto the stretcher, Weaver holding the IV bag while the EMTs right arms and cut away scraps of clothing. “You invite him up to party and he got a little rough?”

I sigh hard and dig at my forehead with my fingers.

“No. He broke in.”

Cop 1 looks at Cop 2 in consternation, then echoes me. “He broke in. You see any sign of a break in downstairs, Mack?”

“Sure didn’t, Kev. Nothing out of place, nothing broken, no signs of struggle~~”

“Did you miss the guy with the fucking baseball bat laid out in the floor?” Jinny demands from the doorway and I look up in relief hearing the Cavalry bugler shrill the call out once again.

“Not to mention the three inches of screen off the patio door where he jimmied the lock,” Magda adds, looking every bit as livid as her partner.

They unconsciously imitate one another’s stances as they pause just inside the doorway, glaring at the uniforms, feet apart, hands jammed on hips, faces whitely furious. I’d like to give them both a thumbs up, but settle for a heaved sigh of relief as I slump back on the bed and blink back what feels suspiciously like tears.

“Sorry it took us so long. We were clear across the Bay on a homicide; just luck Magda recognized the address. I think I gave away my first born to take this call~~” She stops out of breath and bends over me, eyes searching my face worriedly, one hand distractedly grabbing for mine as she starts to sink down next to me on the bed.

Her knees have barely dipped when Magda’s hand flashes out and grips her by the elbow. She speaks low and swift in Spanish, eyes riveted on Jinny’s face as she maneuvers her upright, “Tien cuidado, mija. Éste no es el tiempo dejó a su protector abajo.”

“Um,” Jinny says, frowning and blinking at Magda, clearly struggling to translate and shaking her head a little before giving up. “Que?”

“She said you should take them downstairs and show them where he made entry,” I say and get myself upright fairly efficiently. “And she’ll take my statement.”

“Oh,” Jinny says, glancing between the two of us in bafflement before her eyes widen slightly and her head jerks in a businesslike nod. “Ohhhh. Yeah. Okay.”

She turns towards Cop 1 and Cop 2 who are glaring at her and Magda with all the disdain and disgust and envy unhappy uniforms always have for higher ranked plain clothes, particularly females, then shoots an imperious finger at the doorway. They roll their eyes but it’s not like they have a choice and within seconds they’re out and Jinny is at the door herself, where she stops and looks back at us.

“You’ll take care of her,” she says, obviously to Magda who does a fairly impressive eye roll herself and points an authoritative finger down the stairs, head to one side, then looks back at me, shaking her head a little and not doing a great job at not smiling.

“So,” she says, settling back on her heels on the carpet and glancing once where Ski Mask is being hefted up on the rolling stretcher in preparation for transfer to the hospital.

“That more of your havoc?”

I shrug. “I didn’t hit him, but yeah~~ He might be in here because I was.”

“Any idea who he is?”

“There’s a tatt on his hand; “Chago” and some kind of diamond shape, gang thing, maybe.”

“Those pricks look for ID on him at all yet?”

“Nope.”

“Well, it’s a lot to hope for, but~~ Hold up,” she yells at the backs of the EMT’s as she stands and does a fast pat down at the top of the stairs, finding no identification at all, but uncovering a very nasty looking knife taped to his abdomen when she lifts his shirt.

“Yuck,” I manage over her shoulder when she pauses with the material lifted to look back at me. It’s a fillet knife, thin bladed and long. Magda pries up one corner of the silver duct tape and then unceremoniously rips it off.

Gonzales and Sawyer both cringe reflexively. Ski Mask’s knees jerk.

“Yeah. I don’t think he’s got this taped there to slice pizza, do you?” Magda asks. “And I don’t think he was just going to swing the bat around and scare people.”

“Can’t believe those assholes didn’t even check him for weapons,” Gonzales says disgustedly, looking down the stairs as if they’re in view. “What if he pulled that on us during the ride?”

“I’m sure you’ll be making a notation of that in your reports,” Weaver puts in and I look up at the slight quiver in her voice.

“You got that right,” Sawyer says fervently, then jerks her chin at the stairs.

“Any day now, Gonzo.”

The three of us stay at the top of the stairs as the EMTs navigate the patient down them. I dart sidelong glances at Weaver who is looking distinctly pale and who is staring down the stair case, eyes wide and blank.

“So~~” Magda starts, glancing at me and I shake my head slightly and see her eyes slide to Weaver’s face mutely. She nods, then turns to duck back into the room going I know to examine the bat Ski Mask carted in.

“Hey,” I say and am startled to see Weaver’s eyes are rimmed with tears when she glances at me quickly, throat working.

“I didn’t set the alarm,” she tells me, voice trembling and tone apologetic.

I am terrified to see her lower lip is quivering and I look helplessly down the stairs and then turn back towards the room where Magda is kneeling near the bat, scowling at it furiously and turning it on the carpet with a pen.

Back-up. I need back-up. I suck at this.

“It’s okay,” I say and she cuts me off with a furious white faced glare.

“No,” she says, voice low and shaking. “Don’t even.”

I listen to her gulp air, feeling helpless and inept and wishing Legaspi were there.

“Could we sit down?” I finally ask, “before I fall and you have to call the paramedics back? I think Sawyer would be really pissed off if she had to come back and I couldn’t say anything because I was unconscious.”

I pretend to not notice the quick swipe she does at her eyes after the brief bark of laughter. She murmurs, ”Sure…” and for a moment we sit in tense silence at the top of the stairs, staring raptly at the framed print hung on the landing’s far wall.

“Nothing happened,” I say finally, still not looking at her. “So he got in and the alarm didn’t go off. Big deal.”

“The alarm didn’t go off because it wasn’t set,” she returns tightly, both hands coming up between her knees, one of them gently bouncing the crutch off the stair it’s slanted against. “He was in the house with two weapons, Cooper and at the end of your bed. I believe that scores a ‘big deal’. And he got in because I failed to set the alarm.”

“Yeah… and he’s on his way to jail after an ER visit because you laid him out cold.“

“Damage control,” she says tightly, “does not negate or lessen the initial mistake.”

I clear my throat uneasily, listening to the voices downstairs, listening to the rhythmic thump of the aluminum as she bounces it off the step.

Her shoulders are down, hunched inwards protectively and she’s shrunk somehow, seems remarkably tiny and fragile to me and young. I try to reconcile this despondent and forlorn person with the cool-headed and sarcastic dragon of a woman who had put an armed male in his prime to the floor with a swoop of her crutch, then gone downstairs alone and unarmed not knowing what or who might be waiting.

“Hey,” I say softly and she shakes her head, not looking up at me.

“If you’re going to tell me more ‘it’s okay’ and it was no big deal or some drivel about all’s well that ends well, just… don’t.”

“That’s not what I was going to say,” I tell her firmly and then hesitantly reach to poke at the elbow nearest me, until she finally looks up, face white and exhausted.

Having me as a house guest for the three nights I’ve been out of jail has not been easy for Dr. CIA; the sleep-walking episode the night before had left us both more than slightly rattled and now this…

“Actually,” I say slowly, as I reach an internal decision to get my chaotic and precarious self to a cheap motel and let this poor woman get some sleep and go back to work. Dr. CIA deserves a normal life where deranged, sobbing ex-cops aren’t roaming about her home at all hours re-enacting some scene from a childhood supposedly relegated and forgotten, then the very next night being forced to deal with an armed intruder~~

“Actually,” I repeat, wishing it emotionally possible for me to put an arm around her or take a hand and squeeze it, “I was going to say, you fucked up.”

I’ve definitely got her attention now; the expression in her eyes is dull and accepting and she nods slightly, then clears her throat and sighs. “Yes. I did.”

“And…” I say slowly, “As someone told me not that long ago and I believe this is a direct quote… ‘That was the scariest thing you’ll ever do. You admitted weakness.’”

She blinks once or twice and then snorts, rolling her eyes.

“And the person who told you this… was she as ridiculously preachy and self- righteous and fallible as she feels right now?”

I put my head to one side considering.

“Yeah, I think so,” I tell her, trying to keep the grin to a minimum when I see the flash of annoyance and surprise a second before she lightly thumps me on the shoulder with mild irritation.

“But,” I add, grabbing the rail and hauling myself to my feet in relief as I see Jinny appear at the bottom of the landing, “she was also very wise.

“Jinny,” I say loudly, “Dr. CIA has agreed to teach a class to recruits. We’re going to call it ‘Crutches: Not Just for Tripping People’. What do you think?”

“Where do I sign up?” Jinny responds easily, stopping a step below me and scanning my face rapidly.

“You really are okay, right?” she asks me, voice lowered and I nod.

“Yeah. I’m groggy from the stuff Weaver gave me hoping we could both sleep eight to ten hours, but other than that, I’m fine.”

“Okay. I’d like you to come look around down here if you can and see if anything leaps out at you. It’s looking like a typical B&E but I just~~” she shakes her head, shrugging helplessly.

“Yeah. I know.”

I turn at the bottom of the landing and glance up where Weaver is still sitting on the top step of the stairs and hesitate, relieved when I see her head is up and her shoulders squared and straightened and she is clearly settling things away in preparation for a return to her usual self.

She swipes at her eyes and nods briskly, shoving herself to her feet before lifting the crutch and shaking it slightly.

“My Dork Slayer and I will be helping Inspector Ramirez gather evidence, if you need us.”

Jinny’s eyes are wide as they slide to meet mine. “Her Dork Slayer? What, are you pop quizzing her on cop slang?”

I shake my head. “Scarier. Die Hard marathon on TNT.”

She whistles appreciatively. “Yowza. Little turd’s lucky she just knocked him out.”

“Yeah. How hard would it be for you to get me a weapon?”

She slows her pace slightly and answers without looking at me, watching the uniforms where they dust for prints on the frame of the patio door and window.

“Not that hard. You got a preference?”

“Something like a SIG .357 would probably make me happy.”

“Oooooh. Serious gun fetish there, Finn?”

“Something that can’t be traced back to you would be even better,” I say, ignoring her.

“You know, there’s nothing I see to indicate this wasn’t just an ordinary B&E. I want you to look, but it just~~”

“You ever hear them talk about being burgled before?”

She sighs. “No. They have the security system because this is an upscale neighborhood and because Kim’s treated some scary people in the past and yes~~” she lifts a hand to stop the question which must be obvious in my expression, “~~I’ve paged her and soon as we get an ID on this guy we’ll work it from that angle too. It may have nothing to do with you.”

“Just bad luck,” I say, my voice flat.

She nods, lifting her hands, “It happens. We both know it. Every day.”

Her expression is fierce, her face white and drawn, shadows beneath her eyes so dark they look blackened.

Another person who hasn’t slept well or often since I departed the plane at San Francisco International.

“I still want a gun, Jin.”

She nods again, expression unreadable as she fastens it past my head and rivets it on the uniforms, voice studiedly casual when she speaks next.

“You hear anything out of our mutual friend?”

I shake my head. I know she means S’Phearhead.

“You?”

“Nope.” Her voice is flat and tired.

“I need a weapon, Jinny. I need a gun.” I hate the desperate edge of fear that shakes its way through my voice, hate that I have to grip my hands together in an attempt to make their shaking less noticeable.

“You get anything official on your status from your Department?”

Jinny and I both leap, startled, as Magda voices the question coming around the wall and leaning against it, arms crossed, the bat balanced carefully on the ends of her rubber gloved fingers, expression dubious.

“You know,” she prods, gazing at me, “anything containing the words ‘fired’ or ‘suspended’? Because I know my partner here is not going to furnish a weapon to a police officer whose commission has been revoked pending anything. Because I know my partner is too smart for that.”

“No,” I shake my head wearily and rub at my temples which are pounding now and sigh, hard. “Haven’t got anything like that. Yet.”

“No?” She demands, curls bouncing and doesn’t even glance at Jinny who starts to growl something but stops when Magda suddenly hefts the bat into view, jabbing a finger downwards at the handle which has been taped for easier gripping.

It’s filthy, the edges frayed and scribbled on in marker and ink; what looks like a ragged assortment of gang tags, nicknames and the typical barrio type slogans promoting drugs, guns and racial affiliations.

Except for the obviously new, clear and un-smudged blue ink which in draftsman- quality print lays out my name and beneath it Weaver’s address and the words “top left” both underlined heavily.

I blink, looking between them; Jinny has somehow blanched paler while Magda’s face is glowing a rosy furious red, enraged that her partner is worried and exhausted and that it has somehow now been made personal.

“Then you better get her one, mija, before they say any of those words. Because this guy,” she says fiercely, stabbing a finger at the bat, “came in here for her.”


END OF FORTY SEVEN