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The traffic is backed up at least four miles on Central Skyway. McCafferty is slowly maneuvering up the vacated far right emergency vehicle only lane, flashing her badge through the window at the uniforms who wander out at intervals from between the hoods and rear bumpers of the stalled traffic. It's misting still and the moisture drips off the yellow rain slickers and hoods when they bend to ID her, then wave her on. Ahead and behind us is a blinding wash of red and blue and yellow strobes. We've already crawled past one accident scene which occurred when the driver of an SUV there didn't realize the flow of traffic had stopped due to the initial accident ahead and plowed into the rear of a passenger vehicle. Sarge and I had exchanged wrinkled nose grimaces of compassion for the poor CHP guys out in the rain taking measurements and statements. My nose is pressed now to the driver's side rear window and I study the faces of the unknown motorists we creep past, pale and distorted from the angle and the rain on the sheets of glass between us. For the most part they are bored or annoyed but there's an occasional blink of curious empathy and once a child in a rear car seat removes a thumb, gazing at me solemnly before lifting plump fingers in what is eerily similar to a Vulcan greeting. "Live long and prosper," I whisper as we crawl past, laying my hand out on the glass in response. My own reflection is cast back at me and I'm not entirely sure which of us I'm speaking to. The child seems agreeable to either of us as the recipient. Beside me, Jinny vibrates. It's way past shaking. Shaking is what she had done from head to toe after the phone call to McCafferty's cellular. Shaking is what she had done when McCafferty had relayed the information she'd received; an accident involving Sylvie's Porsche. Unknown number of vehicles involved, unknown injuries, at least one fatality. A wild trembling had seemed to rush through her body as she sat with Magda's feet still in her lap, a jerk of muscles had put her upright, and a final spasm of bone and blood and tissue had wrung the last of the color out of her face as her head jerked in a businesslike nod. And then the shaking had started. It's too rabid to be called shaking now though; from skull to sole she vibrates and her teeth chatter audibly. I can feel every ounce of Sarge focused on her from the passenger side front seat, every pore of his being turned in her direction soaking up subordinate-officer-in-trouble waves. McCafferty is coolly composed and focused on the task of driving and consuming coffee as she inches forward towards the accident scene. I haven't missed her studying me in the rearview though. And know from my carefully blank expression she has deduced Jinny's emotional status. The hand that clenches mine jerks spastically and I ease the subsequent sigh out and grip it more firmly, face still turned to look out. There's a faint tremor in the fingers gripping mine before they squeeze back, gently. I've split myself; from the hand that holds hers, from my reaction to her obvious distress at the idea of Sylvie's being injured. A deeply sympathetic Cooper Finn holds her hands; an icy distant Cooper looks out the window and gazes unflinching at the twisted shapes of metal as McCafferty eases us to a stop at the first of the mangled bits of wreckage. The Porsche is misshapen and grotesque. Beside me Jinny sucks in savage air and I reassuringly squeeze her fingers, relieved she's too focused inward to expect me to say anything comforting or soothing. Strobe light bounces off the reflective tape on the back of the rescue personnel's jackets; the roar and howling whine of the hydraulic equipment is deafening the moment McCafferty shuts the engine off and Jinny wrenches her hand out of mine as she bolts out of the rear door and heads straight for the carnage, head ducked, chin lowered. "Oh shit," Sarge says mildly, making his own hasty exit and I'm surprised to find myself sitting placidly in the car, hand still palm up, fingers curled inwards and limp on the beige vinyl seat. He moves quickly around the front of McCafferty's vehicle, throwing shadows back at us and rushes to intercept Jinny's plunging, frantic shuffle. I watch with vague interest as he bobs in front of her and catches her upper arms in his hands, spinning her away from the wreckage, then resolutely weaves up again when she tries to shove past him. There's an ambulance with it's doors thrown open, the light inside garish and harsh as it glances off cold polished steel and aluminum, the EMTs standing around looking poignantly inept and ill humored about it. Two of them have their arms crossed as they lean back against the rig scowling at the firemen cheerfully employing their obnoxiously loud rescue equipment. A third is strolling randomly among the rescue and police vehicles, bouncing on her toes and cracking silent knuckles; I watch bemusedly as she suddenly stops and drops to the highway, stretches out on the asphalt staring upwards, apparently star gazing. "It's a body recovery," I hear someone pronounce calmly, then realize it's me who has spoken. I can feel McCafferty studying me in the rear view, but she nods, silent. I lean closer to the window and peer upwards, trying to see whatever the blonde paramedic sees up there, but it's vague and distinctly foggy. McCafferty clears her throat after a moment or two more of silence. "Shouldn't you be out there? With her?" "Shouldn't you?" I snort, the sound unpleasant. The sigh she eases out is an assent but she shakes her head decisively. "She'd never forgive me, seeing her like that," she whispers roughly. I nod, eyeing the dark haired EMT who has shoved herself off the back of the bus and sinks to an easy squat, heels to rump, next to the blonde who has both arms up, folded behind her head. Her legs are crossed, the heel of one boot cocked on the toe of the other, both swinging madly in wild opposition to the relaxation pose. The brunette's hand flashes out and cups the top most boot, stilling them both and the blonde rocks half up, gazing at her partner, eyes dropping to the hand held out to her a full ten seconds before she takes it and lets herself be swung upright. I sigh and close my eyes and let my head fall forward against the glass with a gratifying thud as I let the thought take shape inside my head. And I might never forgive her, seeing her like this. The ambulance at the second accident scene behind us takes off, sirens whooping to clear the stray curious and annoyed from the emergency vehicle lane. All three paramedics lift their heads and do half turns towards the sound before looking back at the Porsche and kicking the ground in frustration. Definitely a body recovery, not a rescue. And I am cowering here in silent, removed and docile fear while Jinny thrums and shudders apart alone. "I never used to be such a coward." I'm not even surprised it's been said aloud; I've made my peace with my mouth being permanently disconnected from the wrinkle of my brain that dictates discretion and caution. McCafferty's brows lift slightly as she meets my eyes in the rear view mirror, shrugging one shoulder almost imperceptibly. "Maybe you never had anything you feared losing," she offers and I snort derisively and shove my hands between my knees, and slide my ass to the edge of the seat. I let my head bounce off the cushion behind it, then swivel it when a particularly loud whine of machinery tells me they're peeling the roof back on the Porsche. I'm staring complacently at a single strip of metal bent upwards at a painfully rigid right angle when I realize she hasn't finished speaking. "Until Jase," she amends and doesn't spare me; she adjusts the mirror to accommodate my downward flight, thwarting further visual escape. She gazes at me serenely before clearing her throat. "You know what I realized tonight?" She actually waits for it, makes me meet her eyes and shrug although I can tell from the slightly too-slow blink my reaction might well have been nearer to a shudder than an expression of admitted befuddlement. "You never say his name." I blink, startled. As if he's felt some internal tug Sarge half turns and glances at me, then lifts one hand and knots it in the back center of Jinny's jacket, holding her; back or up, I can't tell. And that look to me~~ is it accusation or entreaty? "Not once. You never actually pronounce it." She's staring at me in the mirror as if some reaction is called for and I reach deep and I pull out a shrug which borders on spastic and let my fingers grip one another, tightly then leap startled at the shriek of agony to my left. It's the Porsche's roof. My head jerks towards the noise and then recoils away from it in protest to the sound. It's metal shrieking in soprano, a whining howl of stressed joints and seams and bolts tearing free; the sound is inhuman. No throat composed of yielding tissue and cartilage could give voice to it. If the fact that Jinny's mouth is closed relieves me somewhat, I am less reassured that her eyes are as well. Definitely holding her up, I decide, taking note of the small squares of whiteness highlighting Sarge's knuckles, knotted in the center of the black leather between her shoulder blades. And past them, just visible through the bulk of padded arms, legs and shoulders stripped with reflective tape, a limp appendage falls gracelessly into view; an arm I decide, a conclusion I reach due to sheer placement and a basic knowledge of human anatomy and how it is generally arranged within crushed vehicles. As if cued, Jinny's eyes fly open and I see her shudder at the advent of it, see Sarge's knuckles whiten in anticipation of her going down, don't miss the look I'm given over his shoulder and I take a deep breath, my hand poised to pop the door open and exit. "Jase." It explodes out of me, a fractured blast of syllable. "His name was Jase." I think maybe I slam the vehicle door slightly harder than is needed. Sarge gives me a look equally composed of gratitude and recrimination when I thump the hand between her shoulder blades. He leans behind her and hisses something which is swallowed up by the swift intake of breath Jinny sucks in as two men in dark blue or black coveralls rattle a gurney up to the side of the vehicle and casually begin the process of unfolding a black vinyl body bag. Both their uniforms and the bag are labeled in white: City of San Francisco Morgue. "Don't do this," I whisper but the only person who looks at me is Sarge. Jinny's white and stricken face is riveted on the lifeless form being lifted from the mangled vehicle onto the vinyl now spread on the gurney. It's the Firing Squad stance all over again, feet apart, shoulders braced, head up; eyes wide and unblinking as she shoves out from under my hand and resolutely covers the scant remaining feet between us and the body being methodically zipped out of view. "Wait," her voice cracks and I hear her clear her throat roughly. I glance at Sarge who is glaring at me as if I should somehow be able to stop her headlong flight into self-destruction. Behind him McCafferty has appeared and lain one hand on his shoulder and is gazing at me with the same expression. I feel like shooting both of them. Instead I find myself exactly where I most don't want to be; at Jinny's elbow, thighs bumping the edge of the cot as she takes a deep breath and steadies herself to fall on her sword. Her hand is shaking as she reaches out to pull a strand of the long hair off the face and her teeth chatter audibly before she turns and looks at me, eyes wide. She wobbles slightly as she turns, the movement uncoordinated and clumsy, her words so sibilant and chopped for lack of air I can't make them out. I shake my head and lean closer, grabbing the elbow nearest me to steady her and she stares at me, shaking her head, face chalky, her lips bruised from her own teeth. "It's not her," she chatters. "Not Sylvie." I blink up at her, then frown downwards at the body swiftly disappearing behind vinyl in the capable swift hands of the morgue employees. "Who~~" I begin, then see the battered cast on the left leg being eased into the body bag. "Hey, got a badge here," one of the fireman announces, reaching in through twisted metal and snagging the article up off the passenger floorboard, holding it up briefly while making eye contact with both Jinny and McCafferty who he obviously recognizes. "Either of you recognize her?" Jinny seems stunned and sags into me before me she closes her eyes briefly. Her voice breaks hoarsely when she speaks, nodding dazedly as she reaches for the standard issue black badge wallet. "Yeah. We know her." There's a raspy little hiss as the zipper is tugged up and closed over Andrea Peyton's battered, broken face.
END OF SEVENTY FOUR
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